You Get What You Give
by my.girlfriend.brittany
Summary: AU: Santana Lopez's life is an open book. Her celebrity status means that everything she does plays out in the public eye. With her latest mistake, one thing is certain. This is one predicament she won't escape without paying for it.
1. Chapter 1

**Santana  
**  
My thoughts upon becoming fully conscious: first, "_shit, I'm in the hospital again_" and second, "_how bad is the damage to my one-week-old Porsche?"_

"I see you're awake, about time." That would be Dad. Stating the obvious, a talent at which he excels.

"Oh, honey, I was so worried about you." A warm hand instantly grasps mine, and I turn towards Mom's voice out of a natural inclination to ignore my father. Especially to his face.

My satisfaction doesn't last too long when I see my Mom's eyes, swollen and red-rimmed, and her mouth, clamped tight in a failed attempt to hold back the trembling of her lower lip. Unfortunately, this isn't an absurd maternal response. If memory serves, I had a little too much to drink and then crashed my car into a house. Not one of my best moments.

In a last effort to divert attention from the bodily-harm part of my vehicular mishap, I ask, "Um, how's the car?"

"How's the car? How's the car?" Dad's eyebrows almost meet his receding hairline. "That's what you choose to inquire about first, after this? Do you have any idea of the destruction of property you've caused, more importantly what you may have done to your career?" Would it have been so hard to just tell me the thing was fucked?

"Robert" Mom's lower lip quivers "she's alive. Everything else can be fixed."

I wonder if she means fixed, like the emergency appendectomy that landed me in the hospital last fall right in the middle of filming my last blockbuster, or fixed, like when I got busted a year ago at a party where everyone was smoking weed, but I got off for lack of evidence.

"Can it?" Dad snaps back, grabbing his jacket from the chair and heading for the door. "God dammit, Santana, I'm not sure if anything about you can be repaired. You've had no regard for the needs of everyone else for some time... and now you've extended that carelessness to your own life. I can't imagine what you were thinking."

I don't answer. I figure he doesn't want to hear that not thinking was sort of the point.

* * *

**Brittany**

I try to keep my voice encouraging, even though I'm trying my best not to start yelling at the top of my lungs. "Okay, guys, let's take it from the top!"

That thing they say about herding cats? Try herding twenty six-year-olds into practicing a dance rehearsel for Bible School Parent Night, when they're determined not to miss out on the swimming pool time they've been promised for good behavior.

"Miss Brittany?" I feel a tug on the side of my denim jeans. It's Bella, from whom I hear _Miss Brittanyyyyy_? at least a hundred times a day.

"Yes, Bella?" I say, and before the words leave my mouth, twenty six-year-olds are jumping out of their seats and shoving each other aside at the window to stare longingly at the pool shimmering just outside under a beautiful, cloud-free sky.

"I need to go." _Again_? This kid must have a bladder the size of a pea.

"Can you hold it another minute, sweetie? We're almost done—" A welp sounds from across the room. Matthew has scissors in one hand and Rose's plait in the other.

"Matthew, drop it." I bite my lip at the startled look on his face. Must not laugh. It's not funny. _Not funny_. He blinks, eyes shifting from scissors to plait.

"Which one?"

I narrow my eyes. "Let's start with Rose's hair." He instantly drops the plait and she runs to her friends, who gather around her while glaring at him. I've never had a group of girlfriends like that—a protective clique so to speak. Great now I'm jealous of a bunch of six-year-olds.

"Miss Brittany" Bella whines, pulling harder. I take her hand to keep her from pulling my pants down. I'd never restore order if that were to happen.

"Just a minute, Bella." I squeeze her hand gently. "Matthew" I say more sternly. "Bring me those scissors." Eyes on his untied sneakers, he shuffles over as slowly as humanly possible. "Where'd you get them?"

He holds the scissors out with both hands as though presenting me with a . Not falling for his fake innocence, I arch an eyebrow. He chances a peek at my face. "Mrs. P's desk," he mumbles, scowling at his feet again.

Our church secretary, Emma Pillsbury. She keeps a huge jar of candy on her desk and wears creaky orthopedic shoes which have the same effect as a bell on a cat's collar. The kids hear her coming down the hall five minutes before she arrives. Judging by the smear of chocolate on Matthew's mouth, I'd say he sampled a Hershey Kiss or two before making off with her scissors.

"Do we take Mrs. P's things without permission?" I fix a disappointed look on him.

He shakes his head. "Is taking things that don't belong to you what Pastor Daniel means by good behavior?" His wide, dark eyes snap up to mine. Bingo, kid. Pool time is in jeopardy.

"But Miss Brittany!" he says. "I didn't cut it!"

"We aren't talking about Rose's hair just yet. We're discussing you taking Mrs. P's scissors—"

"I'll put them back!" Tears fill his eyes. "I'm s-s-sorry!"

"You're sorry because you got caught," I say, and he bursts into tears. Oh, dear Lord. This is where they always get me.

"Miss Brittany!" Bella practically screams, cupping herself, one leg raised and pressing against the other.

I sigh in defeat, giving up on the rehearsal for today. "All right, everyone line up for the bathroom!"

"Me first! Me first! " Bella says, keeping her death grip on my hand. As I walk to the head of the line, she hops lightly behind me on one foot.

"Matthew, come stand by me." Rubbing tears away with his fist, he takes my other hand, and I leave the classroom with twenty little ducklings trailing behind.

In a few weeks, I'll be on a trip to Málaga. As exotic as that sounds, I'll be doing much the exact same thing I'm doing now—I'll just be doing it in Spanish.

* * *

**Santana**

I unfasten the buttons on my blazer to remove it the second I turn to head out of the courtroom. The next thing to go will be this crap pinning up my hair that makes me look like one of my mother's fuckwit church friends.

"Put that back on," Dad barks, his shoulders rigid. He's judged me guilty as charged even though the prosecution accepted our plea bargain... sort of.

I think about ignoring him for half a second, until my manager's less dictatorial voice urges discretion. "Santana, there will be press. Playing For Keeps is out in theaters in a matter of days. This is no time to look like a rebel. We've already lost a couple of endorsements—your image is suffering enough without you giving the impression that you're ungrateful to have gotten off easy for something that would land 99.9% of regular people in jail."

"You call that easy?" The judge's demands for my plea bargain are beyond ridiculous.

"Yes—as would anyone with half a brain," Dad butts in. Subtlety has never been in my father's nature. "Put the goddamned blazer back on, Santana."

My jaw works overtime as I refasten the top buttons of the white Armani dress shirt and shrug the blazer back on. By the time I'm thirty, I'll have worn my teeth down to nubs.

My friends ask why I don't just ditch my dad. I'm twenty one, an adult in every legal sense of the word. I'm a legitimate Hollywood star, with a manager, an agent, a PR guy, or woman, as the case may be—Dad most likely fired Artie when he didn't move fast enough to save those endorsements last week.

That's the thing. My father takes care of everything. He's the CEO of my life, and I'm the product. He manages my career, my money, my legal issues… I don't have to do jack shit but show up for auditions, movie tapings, premieres and occasional commercial endorsements. I can't stand him any more than he can stand me, but I know he won't screw me over.

Mike was right, as usual. The media is camped out on the courthouse steps, ready to take my statement. I had nothing to do with writing it. Mike handed it to me last night when Dad and my attorney—whose name I can't recall because I couldn't care less which junior kiss-ass partner wannabe Dad selected from his firm to represent me. Riley or Ryder, I think. Dad fades behind me as planned while I'm flanked by Mike and junior kiss-ass. I fix an appropriately repentant expression on my face.

"I just want to apologize to my fans. I'm so sorry to have let all of you down. I assure you that this incident was a momentary lapse in judgment, and it won't be repeated."

Someone shoves a mic in my face. "Will you go into rehab?"

Cue the look of shame layered over remorse. "The judge didn't believe that would be necessary at this time. But I intend to follow the terms of the court's orders to the letter, and this occurrence will not be repeated."

"What about the home you destroyed, and the family you made homeless?" A guy from one of the local Hispanic stations looks like his bullshit detector is set on high. Come on, asshat. It was one room of a house, and no one was in it, so no one was hurt.

"The home owners are being compensated," I say. "The details are private, but the reparation has been agreed upon by all parties."

"Your father's paying them off, you mean." The fuck? This guy is persistent. Maybe he's related to them or something.

"No, sir." I look him directly in the eye"I was responsible for the accident. I'm the one paying."

"And you feel comfortable calling it an accident... when you chose to drink yourself to more than double the limit for a legal adult, and then drive a two-thousand pound vehicle through a residential area?"

"Well, I..."

"The owner of the property is a real estate company. What about the family living there, renting the home? They're hardworking people, but uninsured, and now they've lost belongings they can't afford to replace, in addition to the fact that they're currently homeless. What about them?" You've got to be kidding me. I want to kick this guy's ass so bad my fist is already clenched.

Junior kiss-ass decides this is the time to step in and earn that partnership. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen—as Ms. Lopez's legal counsel, I assure you that she takes full responsibility for her actions and intends to repair all of the damage done, and then some." Isn't that what I just said?

And what the hell does he mean by and then some?

* * *

**Brittany**

While Dad says grace, I can't help but let my mind wander. I don't mean to be disrespectful, and I always keep my eyes shut, but sometimes I have so much to keep track of that my brain is making lists and checking off details any time it gets a calm moment to do so.

Parent Night rehearsals with the kids will have to wait until next week. My Habitat for Humanity project has a more pressing deadline thanks to the self-centered, egocentric moron who drove her stupid sports car into the living room of our future family's rental place. I don't understand people like her—people who think of no one, ever, but themselves. They just take up space on the planet, never contributing anything worthwhile.

She's the reverse of someone like my dad—Pastor Daniel Pierce. Dad would tell me that God wouldn't be pleased about my biases concerning Santana Lopez.

God has a purpose, _even for people like her_, Dad would say. Yeah, right. Ugh, there I go again.

I'll be spending the next several days straight working on the Habitat house. Luckily, we have most of it done. Unfortunately, that doesn't include the A/C, and it's already hot and hazy. Much of Los Angeles lives without central air; I shouldn't complain. I have a comfortable home, even if it's not chock-full of luxury items like big-screen televisions and rooms of furniture where everything matches. Mom knows her way around with a paint brush.

I've got a few more things to get turned into UC Berkeley before I start next fall: AP exam results, graduation certificate, housing deposit.

Almost everyone who knows me seems puzzled by the fact that I intend to pursue a degree in social work rather than dance. I'm often told that I was born to dance, but that would be an impractical career path. Dad's the only one who really gets that sentiment.

He's actually also where I get my talent for dancing from. Mom and Deborah, my older sister, are absolutely useless when it comes to that sort of thing, but they have useful natural and applied skills. Mom's an obstetrical nurse, and Deb recently began her hospital residency in Seattle—she's going to be a pediatrician.

This summer, like the last several years, I'm working the summer program our church offers for the neighborhoods nearby. The van picks the kids up in the morning, enabling their parents to go to work without worrying about what to do with them. The kids stay all day, which means we have to come up with lots of activities. The swimming pool was Mom's idea. Some members of the church finance committee balked at installing something so lavish, but Mom convinced them, Dad says Mom could talk the Devil into baking cookies for the church bake-sale.

"…Amen," Dad says, and I open my eyes, banishing thoughts of Satan wearing an apron from my mind.

"Britt, your dad has some news that might interest you." Mom hands me the bowl of mashed potatoes, and they're both watching me closely. Weird.

Dad clears his throat. "You got a call just before you got home. I guess Holly doesn't have your cell number."

Holly, my project leader at Habitat, doesn't get that people can be easily reached on the phone they carry around with them. Her cell phone is always in her bag and off, because she believes the battery will run down if she leaves it on, and then it wouldn't be at the ready in case she gets mugged and needs it. I've never asked her how she plans to hold the bad guy off while her phone switches on.

"There's a new volunteer starting tomorrow, and she wants you to help her adapt, show her the ropes." My brow furrows. While we appreciate volunteers, this isn't exactly huge or unusual news, plus my parents are being downright odd.

"Okay. No problem." Waiting for the punch line, I pass the potatoes to Dad. "Is it someone with experience, I hope?"

" I highly doubt that." He laughs but he doesn't elaborate, I finally say,

"Dad, spit it out."

Dad isn't meeting my eyes, unusually cryptic. "Well, this volunteer may be someone you know. Not know, exactly. But know of." I'm way too tired for this. "Am I supposed to guess who it is?" I ask. "Is it someone from church?"

"It's Santana Lopez" Mom blurts out, unable to contain herself any longer.

"What?"

Dad tries the logical spin. "Apparently working to get the house ready sooner for the Brooke's was part of her plea bargain." Oh, no. No, no, no. This is not happening.

"Wait. So she's not even a real volunteer, it's court ordered?" They cannot expect me to babysit that self-absorbed, womanizing, probable alcoholic sinner.

"Holly said that since you're about her age, she was hoping you could… er…"

"Babysit her." I scowl. "Please tell me it's only for a day or two."

Dad shrugs and starts to eat. "You'll need to ask Holly that. I'm just the messenger."

I close my eyes for a moment, imagining the absurdity of Santana Lopez on site, the wasted time accumulating hourly. I'd planned to tile the master bath's shower tomorrow. No way I could trust her to help with that. "Why me?" I hear his answer in my head before he says it.

"Don't know, honey. But there's a reason for everything." Dad pats my hand. "We'll just have to wait patiently to see what it is." As I do every time he says that or something like this, I bite back what I'd say if I could reply honestly. I don't believe there's a reason for everything, and having faith doesn't mean I'm blind. I believe people make poor choices. I believe bad things happen to good people. I believe there's evil in the world that I will never understand, but will never stop fighting. If I believed for two seconds that there was a reason behind some of the awful things that occur in this life, I wouldn't be able to stand it.

Santana Lopez is just another thing to add to that long list of terrible things.

* * *

**REVIEW IF YOU WANT.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Santana**

"Well, this is promising." Dad walks across the kitchen, setting his briefcase on the granite-topped counter.

I don't bother to reply. He's been testing me like this since I was a kid. Took me a while to learn not to take the bait and let him prove how much more intelligent than me he is. My father gets paid to argue—and by the size of this house, the cut of his custom-made suit and the cars in the garage, he's brilliant at it.

It must piss him off more than words describe that I do what I do and earn more money than he does. Of course, he has no idea how hard I work when I'm filming, but who cares. Let him think I do next to nothing. Just pisses him off more, which is fine with me.

"I even made coffee." He fills his travel mug and screws the lid on. Not even a thankyou, _asshole_.

"Is your mother up?"

"Haven't seen her."

"You'll need to call a car to get to work," he reminds me, "since your license has been suspended for six months." He sounds way too pleased about that.

"I thought you were gonna take me." I blink my eyes at him. His mouth opens and no sound comes out as I struggle to keep a straight face. "I'm joking, Dad—I already called the service. They'll be here in ten minutes."

"Oh." Scowling, his mouth snaps closed. "Well, fine then." I'm not sure if I should be amused or pissed that he's so surprised.

When I hand the driver the sheet with the charity build-a-house address, he studies it before looking at me with a confused expression.

"Yeah, it's correct," I say, anticipating his question. "Just take me there, okay?" He opens the back door to the black Mercedes.

"Yes, Ms Lopez."

As we pull away, it occurs to me that this car will be so fucking obvious in the neighborhood where I'll be for the next month. If I took a regular taxi it would only be marginally better. To blend in, I'd need to hire a gang member in a pimped out Monte Carlo to drop me off.

On the drive, I read through some of the scripts Mike and I are considering for upcoming projects, but none of them motivate me to look beyond the first page. A year ago, I'd have been happy enough with several, but now I'm thinking they're all the stupidest shit I've ever read. I attribute this new perception to Rachel, my costar in Six Degrees Of Separation. She told me last fall she'd rather do serious films than movies that have immediate blockbuster potential. Why her viewpoint rubbed off on me at all, I have no clue. Maybe because Rachel is also the only girl I've bothered to pursue but not caught in years, and I screwed up any possible second chance by hooking up with other girls when she didn't cave. By the time the cast met up for the premiere, she was with Puck, another costar. Who my ex Quinn, happened to want.

She offered me a devil's bargain: Quinn would seduce Puck, and Rachel would fall right into my arms. Puck didn't go for it, but thanks to Quinn's scheming, Rachel thought he had. She was distraught. Fragile. I had her right where I wanted her, but I couldn't do it. One of the few principles I have where girls are concerned: lying to get a girl in bed is cheating. If I cheat to win, I didn't really win.

I got a little overly withdrawn after that. A short-lived state, luckily. I snapped out of it after my accident, when I had a few compulsory meetings with a court-appointed therapist who suggested that maybe I was trying to kill myself. I laughed in his face. I mean, there's a difference between being suicidal and not giving a shit if you live or die. Right?

"Ms?" the driver says. "We're here… if you're sure this is where you want to be dropped…"

Outside the dark tinted glass lies a sea of generic bungalows—paint fading, bars on windows and doors, each house separated by a few feet from the next one and surrounded by limp, untended trees. I stare at the partially-completed house. A house number sloppily painted onto a piece of raw plywood leaning against the front matches the number on the court info.

"Yeah, this is it. Be here at or before three to pick me up. I don't want to be waiting around." I normally wouldn't be caught dead driving through this neighborhood, let alone helping to build yet another piece-of-crap house. This fucking sucks ass.

"Yes, I'll be here by 2:45 Ms Lopez."

All movement around the house has come to a standstill, because everyone is staring at the women exiting a chauffeured Mercedes. I seriously should have thought about arriving in some other form of transportation.

As I walk up the unfinished pathway, a girl comes out to greet me… although greet may be a slight exaggaration. She's glaring as she walks towards me, her

brows drawn together in an expression I tend to see directed at me alot.

I take about twenty seconds to sum her up physically. She's wearing an oversized, faded t-shirt. I can't tell breast size or shape under that thing. In my experience, if a girl has either, she's going to dress to at least hint at the fact. Her tent of a t-shirt tells me she's hiding inadequacies, not assets. Her shorts are so far out of style that I'm not sure they were ever in style. Sprinkled with flecks of paint, her construction boots are worn and scuffed. Still, she manages to pull off this part of the manual laborer look because her legs are the only thing remotely hot about her. Her calves are perfectly shaped, strong and muscled. Most of the girls I know—actresses, society girls—want long, thin legs. But legs like hers are what I go for when I'm feeling particular. Hair—blond and pulled back from her face into a ponytail. Probably goes well past her shoulders when down. Assuming she ever wears it down. Face—predictably, no makeup, not even a swipe of blush or lip gloss. Blue, blue eyes. Finally, her mouth— her lips are perfect and but thin, even set into a harsh line like they are now. I stuff both hands into the front pockets of my jeans, stop a few feet from the street and wait.

"Ms. Lopez, I assume?" she says, still striding forward. I nod, adding something further to the short list of her attractive features: her voice. It makes me want to hear her sing, even though her inflection says she wishes the ground would swallow me.

Legs, lips, voice. If one of these proves too appealing to ignore, a few veiled insults will give her self-esteem enough of a hit to back off, though it rarely chases them off completely. Girls are irrationally attracted to assholes. I don't intend to be cruel, but I'm not hooking up with some bleeding-heart do-gooder. I just want to do my time and get the hell out.

* * *

**Brittany**

A Mercedes? Really? I am so not looking forward to this.

The moment Her Highness arrived was easy enough to determine since everyone just flat-out stopped what they were doing to gawk at the big celebrity and her pretentious car. One minute the house hummed with the sound of people talking, laughing and working side-by-side, and the next there was silence. I fail to see how this sort of daily interruption will be beneficial to the project… but no one asked me.

Atleast she's dressed appropriately—jeans, t-shirt, work boots—but I get the feeling those jeans were more expensive than the nicest outfit I own. Possibly ditto the t-shirt, which has some sort of logo I don't recognize. I'm guessing it isn't a brand found at Target.

When I walked out to meet her, she gave me a careless once-over—and dismissed whatever she saw. Most girls might be offended, but I'm grateful. I don't want Santana Lopez's interest. It goes against everything I believe in. If I had any say, she would be doing her community service elsewhere, but the judge wanted her to assist in building the home for the family she displaced, and I can't argue with that logic.

"Ms. Lopez, I assume?" I said, and she nodded shortly. I turned before she could see what I was thinking. When it comes to having a poker face—I don't. Usually that's not a problem, since lying is something I strive not to do because I just don't see the point. But with someone like Santana Lopez, it would be unwise to let her sense any vulnerability where she's concerned. I live in Los Angeles, after all, and while I might not run in her circle, or even within the same universe as her circle, I know her type: careless, spoiled and ignorant of anyone's needs outside her own. Even with that angel's face, she cannot be trusted.

I glance over my shoulder and she hasn't moved. Without slowing, I say, "Come with me, please," and hope that she complies—because no one's told me what I'm supposed to do if she doesn't.

Releasing a breath as I hear the crunch of gravel under her boots, indicating that she's at least following me inside, I tell myself that I can put up with anything for a few weeks. I wanted to scream when Holly told me that her community service agreement was for a month. Meaning she'll be my problem for the entire three and a half weeks before I leave for Málaga.

As we pass through the small house, my fellow volunteers gape, star-struck. Grown men stop what they're doing just to stare, though the women are worse—straightening their clothes, patting hair into place—jesus christ. You'd think they've never seen anything pretty before.

That's the first thing I must admit and get past—the sheer fact of how beautiful she is. I've seen the magazine covers, the posters on friends' bedroom walls. I knew she'd be beautiful. The fact of the matter, though, is "beautiful" doesn't do her justice. Mom would term her hair dark and lustrous, and Dad would say it's a little too long. Her eyes are a brown so inviting I'd always assumed was photoshopped. She's so sensually attractive that I should add every girl on whom she'll turn her attention to my prayer list, because they're going to need all the divine intervention they can get to resist her. I'm more than thankful that she dismissed me so quickly.

"I was going to tile the bathroom shower today… but that's a complicated task and you'd just end up watching me do it. So we're going to paint the bedrooms instead." We arrive in the master bedroom, the walls and ceiling of which are unfinished. The carpet hasn't fitted, so at least I don't have to worry about her ruining the floor.

"I'll do the ceiling, because it's more—"

"Complicated?" she interjects, regarding me with an amused look.

I take a slow, deep breath. It's going to be a long three and a half weeks.

* * *

**Santana**

"So, do you have a name—or do I just call you boss?" Introductions: Basic Etiquette 101. The tips of her ears turn bright pink, but she otherwise doesn't blush.

"I'm sorry." She steps towards me, offering her hand. "I'm Brittany." I take her hand and give her one firm shake, only slightly annoyed that the combination of her pitch-perfect voice and the touch of her hand are like a tiny electric shock.

"Call me Santana. Only my subordinates call me Ms. Lopez." Comprehending me instantly, she blinks and her ears turn an even darker shade of pink, and I decide that this month may prove more entertaining than I'd thought.

"Okay, then, Santana, here's the paint we'll be using, and the rollers, brushes, etcetera. Have you painted before?" Is she serious?

"Not rooms." She doesn't miss a beat.

"Then I guess you'll be learning a new skill." Pulling a small metal instrument from her pocket, she crouches next to the paint cans. I'm trying not to focus on the line of muscle flexing from the top of her boot to where it disappears at the hem of her shorts. It's harder than I'd like to admit.

"I doubt I'll feel the need to paint the walls at my place any time soon," I say, scoffing at the notion of wasting my time doing any form of manual labor when I could pay someone almost nothing to do it. She pries the lid off of a paint can, ignoring my comment and smiling at the sky blue inside. Without glancing up, she sets the lid aside.

"What if you accept a film role where you need to act like you can paint, but you don't know how? I can make you look like an expert by the end of the week." My estimation of her ability to manipulate goes up several notches. So she's going to make me an "expert" at painting? How hard can it be?

I'm rolling paint on the final bit of the last wall, while Brittany is on the ladder "cutting in" with a brush—painting the wall space between the ceiling and the spot where the roller can't go without hitting the ceiling. Which I learned the hard way. The windows are open to save us from being suffocated by paint fumes, but there's no breeze to speak of and summer is gearing up to be a bitch. This would be a perfect day to be at the beach. Or alternatively, pretty much anywhere else.

"It's fucking hot in here." I set the roller in the tray and examining my hands, which are splattered in blue. There's blue on my nails, under my nails, speckling my forearms and the yellow Prada t-shirt that, luckily, isn't a favorite. Since the shirt's already streaked and spattered with blue paint, a few more smears from my fingers won't matter.

I pull the shirt over my head and toss it next to a pile of drop-cloths after mopping my face with it. I'm left standing in my jeans, black bra on show. I've never been one for modesty.

Brittany is on her ladder, motionless and staring at me while a line of paint runs from the upturned brush down the handle and continues along her arm. When I cock an eyebrow at her she snaps her attention back to the paintbrush in her hand, dropping it into the shallow paint tray hooked to the ladder. Grabbing a cloth, I climb onto the ladder behind her, take her wrist in my hand and stop the drip of paint with the cloth. This seems to unsettle the shit out of her.

"This ladder is only built to hold one," she says, taking the cloth from me. Shrugging, I hop down.

"You're welcome." Her legs, smooth and unblemished, are eye-level when my boots hit the ground. I resist the urge to run a finger over the soft spot behind her knee. She'd probably fall off the ladder… at which point I'd catch her… And then she'd start screaming.

"Thank you." Ears pink, she unhooks the tray and avoids looking at me.

I've been here half a day and I've schooled her in manners twice. That's gotta sting. She's backing down the ladder with the paintbrush and tray when I ask if we're done with this room. Cocking her head to the side like she's trying to figure out if I'm serious, she looks at me.

"No… we're just taking a lunch break to give it time to dry so we can apply the second coat."

"You've got to be kidding me," I say. "We have to paint this entire room again?" She clenches her jaw, but calms herself with one breath.

"Yes. You'll see why when we come back after lunch." Her voice is all patience and fortitude. I possess neither of those traits.

"Fine. Whatever. I've got to be here for a month. Doesn't matter if I paint the same fucking wall fifty times." Her lips set in a line, she huffs a breath and glances at me and away.

"Could you put your shirt back on, please?" I have to grin.

"Why? Does it bother you that I'm shirtless?" She rolls her eyes in a big exaggerated gesture, and I struggle not to laugh.

" Well a little self-respect wouldn't hurt, but suit yourself. I don't care if you want to strip naked" I grab the shirt off the floor and pull it on, following her out of the room.

"Strip naked, huh? I don't know about that, Brittany. We just met." She doesn't reply, but her ears go pink.

* * *

**Brittany  
**  
I can't believe I just invited Santana Lopez to be naked in my presence. As if I didn't know she wouldn't take that sort of remark silently. I was expecting to find her difficult to motivate and just as difficult to teach, but she listened (though she seemed bored out of her mind), and for the most part she followed my instructions. I had to let her try it her way first, because apparently she's a learn-the-hard-way type. (Shocking.) She didn't trust me about not getting too much paint on the roller. Or rolling in arches instead of straight lines on the first pass. Or not rolling too near the ceiling. By the second wall, she'd improved, more so the third, and the last was nearly perfect. I was starting to relax until she took off her shirt. Who does that?

I've managed to remain unaffected by all torsos for eighteen years no matter the gender, but wow, I've never been confronted with a torso like hers. She's  
like an ad for cologne or beachwear or gym equipment—all perfect skin stretched over flawlessly-toned muscle. Luckily, her arrogance is such a turnoff that I didn't have any problem asking her to put her shirt back on.

Like the walk through the house this morning, conversations break off when Santana and I enter into what will be the back yard, some workers will be here every day—notably the crew leaders like Holly. Others vary day to day—college students, church groups, or employees from area companies that support community service projects by giving them time off to volunteer.

I walk to the water spigot to wash my hands and Santana does the same, and then splashes water over her face and runs her wet hands through her hair as though everyone out here wasn't watching her do it. Following me to the card table where the food is laid out, she acts as though there's nothing odd about a Hollywood celebrity being handed a paper plate and pointed to the plastic utensils and the cooler holding bottled water. I sit on a step, balancing my plate on my knees, and she sits next to me. Everyone is still staring, though whispered conversations are resuming.

"So why are you here?" she asks. "I'm guessing you haven't been arrested for drunken driving or gotten caught with a joint in your gym locker."

"Um, no," I say, once I've finished chewing. "I'm a regular." She peers at me, and I can't decide if she's puzzled or amused.

"So you do this all the time. Hmm."

"What?" While she's studying the other volunteers, appraising each one without any change in expression, I'm gazing at her profile, waiting for her to continue. She has the longest eyelashes I've ever seen, and her now-damp hair, somehow even darker than when wet, curls at the ends.

"Nothing." She shrugs. "I just wonder what else you have time to do, if you're doing this all the time," she adds, biting off half a taco. People like her never understand people like me. It's like we come from different species.

"Well, since I don't make a habit of getting drunk, smoking pot, clubbing and sleeping with everything that moves, I have plenty of time for other activities." Ohmygosh. I did not just say that. She laughs softly, turning to face me as I scowl. Her deep brown eyes are striking, framed by thick, dark lashes.

"Let me guess—Monday is bookclub, Tuesday is family game night… Wednesday is Bible study, and Thursday you meet up with the sewing circle to make quilts for the elderly…Am I close?" Without answering, I get up to go back inside. This isn't the first time I've been ridiculed for what I am, but for some reason—not because it's from her—it's more disheartening.

"Wait," she says, and for some stupid reason I stop, expecting her to apologize. "When do you have time for the soup kitchen?" She's chuckling when I go inside without looking back.

* * *

**Santana**

Wow, that was a dick thing to say. For someone so minimally impressed by celebrity proximity, she's been cool enough. Right up to that laundry list of activities in which, truth be told, I do engage. Still, Jesus. Superior much?

I stand to go inside when conversations taper off and people go back to whatever they were doing before break. Those still outside are stealing glances at me as I throw the plate and utensils away, finish the bottle of water and toss it into the recycling container.

"Ms. Lopez" someone says—that Holly woman. "How's it going so far?"

"Awesome."

"Oh, good." She smiles, oblivious to my sarcastic tone. "Britt is one of our best volunteers. We're really proud of her; maybe she'll even teach you some new tricks!"

"Uh-huh," I answer, smiling at her. The day a little prude like her teaches me a new trick is the day I'll be finding a nice tall building to leap off of. I go back to the room we were painting to find her with earbuds in her ears, an ancient model iPod clipped to her shorts, the wire threaded under her shirt. She's gathered the equipment she used to paint the ceiling this morning.

Pausing the music without removing the earbuds, she says, "You know what to do in here; I'm going next door to start on the ceiling, unless you need me here to supervise you." I bite back half a dozen forward answers.

"I think I can handle it." She nods shortly.

As she gets to the door, I add, "Oh and Brittany, I'll need you to sign my sheet for the court before I go." Her shoulders stiffen, but she continues out of the room, her ears lit like a flare. I clamp my lips together to keep from laughing. Getting on her nerves is just too easy.

By 3:00, I've finished the room. Brittany shows up at 3:01 with a pen in her hand. As she glances around, checking my work, I pull the form from my back pocket and hand it to her. Except for a couple of blue swipes on the ceiling above the first wall (turns out she was right about not getting too close with the roller), it looks pretty good. Without commenting, she signs the form—_Brittany S. Pierce_—and hands it back. I thank her, thinking she'd love nothing more than to turn around and leave without replying, but she doesn't risk it after my earlier comments.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she says. Her lyrical voice gives me a small jolt, but she's already leaving the room.

My driver is waiting at the curb. He starts at the sight of me, sweaty and speckled in blue paint. I'm sure he's imagining what my clothes will do to those leather seats, but he says nothing beyond, "Good afternoon, Ms. Lopez" as he opens the back door and waits for me to get in.

One day down, nineteen to go.

* * *

**review if you feel like it please.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Brittany**

Dad picks me up a couple of hours after Santana leaves. Pulling into traffic, he drums lightly on the steering wheel. The drive home requires some freeway time, and he's got the classical station on to de-stress. I lean my head back and close my eyes, grateful I don't have to drive. I hate driving on LA freeways. Mom says it brings out the devil in me. The way people drive on 110, I don't think I'm alone.

"So, how'd today go?" Dad is so obvious when fishing for information. Just the fact that he waited a few minutes into the drive to ask tells me he's working to sound casual.

What do I say? That Santana is as spoiled and arrogant as I thought, stubborn but teachable, and more beautiful than any women has a right to be?

"Fine." I can't keep the exasperation out of my voice.

"Honey, I've seen you wrangle two dozen munchkins into little angels." He pats my knee. "I doubt this will be more difficult than that."

"The little angels were scared of me, Dad." He laughs.

"The kids love you, Brittany."

"Love and fear, Dad—that's the key to motivation. Love and fear." 110 is a parking lot during rush hour. We're barely moving; I could walk faster. Literally. I crack an eye open. The windshield view is the back of a semi, and we're blocked on either side by other, also stationary cars.

"Are you planning on applying that tactic to Ms. Lopez?" I bristle at my dad calling her that. And someone like me will never inspire either love or fear in someone like Santana.

"I can't imagine how I'd be able to get her to do anything she doesn't want to do." He frowns.

"Did she refuse to work today?" Thinking about the shocked look on Santana's face when I told her the room needed a second coat of paint, I stifle a laugh.

"No, she painted one room—with my help of course." I set up the bathroom to do the tiling tomorrow. Santana seemed capable of painting without guidance by the end of the day, so maybe she won't need constant monitoring.

"I guess that's something—if she actually worked, instead of pulling a prima donna act." Eyes closed, I roll my head back and forth to stretch the kinks out of my neck after spending the day painting ceilings.

"I had to sign some sort of court document at the end of the day, verifying she was there and doing actual labor. I guess she'd be in trouble if she didn't perform the community service." The concerto swells, and neither of us speaks for several minutes. Music, to both of us, is the purest expression of emotion. When it's inspired, it leaves tears in my eyes, leaves me breathless. For me, there's nothing better than dancing and knowing I've affected someone that same way.

"So, what's on the agenda tonight—partying til the wee hours? Drag racing on the strip? Hot date?" My father laughs at his little joke. I know he doesn't mean anything by it—to him, I'm an incorrigible good girl. I may be the only girl in the history of California whose father encourages her to stay out later with friends.

"Sure—all of the above. Don't wait up."

"So are you still seeing—" he snaps his fingers twice.

"Sam?"

"That's the one."

"We were never really a thing, Dad." Sam is a guy from school who's known for his volunteer efforts at the soup kitchen. In other words, he's a male me. Everyone's been trying to push us together since he transferred in during junior year. We've been out a few times and still hang out occasionally. He's nice enough, and certainly good-looking enough, but I can go for days without thinking about him. So I do.

"Is he aware of this?"

"Dad." I'm amused by the fact that my father is interested in my love life. Or lack thereof. "We're just friends. He's nice. Fun. Easy to talk to." Everything Santana isn't. Why am I thinking of her?

"Ouch," Dad says, wincing. "No chemistry, huh?"

"What?"

"Nice, fun, easy to talk to—sounds like you're talking about me!" He glances over his right shoulder to change lanes, winking at me in the process.

"I could do worse than someone like you, Dad," I laugh. He pretends to admire himself in the rearview mirror, waggling his eyebrows.

"True. There's no hurry, though."

"Definitely not." I'm eighteen, so he's right—there's no hurry. I don't tell him how much I want that sort of connection—a relationship like he and Mom share. The trust and respect between them is plain to see, but I know that under the surface, their relationship simmers with passion. I don't tell him how much I worry it will never happen for me. I don't tell him how some days, I feel as though everything I do is an attempt to be worthy of being loved like that.

* * *

**Sanatana  
**

Mom meets me at the door with a drink in her hand. "Santana!" Plucking at the shirt, her eyes widen and her mouth screws up. Dropping the fabric like it's covered in shit instead of paint, she rubs her fingers together.

"It's just paint, Mom. And it's dry." I pull the shirt over my head and keep walking towards the curving marble staircase.

"Did you get any on the walls?" Clearly, a smartass temperament is genetic, and I was dealt a double dose.

"Yeah, I actually did. I'm gonna take a shower—when's dinner?" I call down when I hit the second landing.

"Marie should have it on the table by seven."

"I think I'll nap, too. I'm going out later, and I'm exhausted." I don't wait for an answer. If Dad isn't going to be home—he usually isn't—I have no idea how she'll spend the evening, besides having another drink or three.

"I still can't believe you destroyed your 911, man." Finn downshifts his Jaguar XJ to take a curve.

"It sucks ass, seriously." My one week old Porsche 911 GT2 RS was incredible. I don't even remember getting into it that night. Guess I should be glad I hadn't taken anyone home from that club—the whole right side was crushed in. Okay, that's a more sobering thought than I want to be having tonight.

"Gonna replace it?"

"No point right now—my license is suspended for six months anyway." Six months. Damn. The judge didn't even count the time from the accident to my court date against it—he started the sentence from the court date, leaving five months, two weeks and four days to go. Finn frowns, confused.

"So?" I should know better than to expect my best friend to get why I won't be driving on a suspended license. He has no concept of consequences. He's the luckiest bastard I hang out with—he never gets caught doing anything. It's bizarre. Not to mention unfair as hell.

"I've gotta lay low for a bit. First getting busted at that party, and now this DUI and community service crap."

"But they dropped the charges on the weed, right?"

"Yeah. But standing there in front of a judge, you can't help feeling like he knows everything you've ever done."

"Harsh." Finn is one of those guys who frequently comes across as stoned off his ass. He's brighter than he seems—unless he's actually stoned, in which case he's practically brain dead. We're heading into the Hills for a party some girl is having. Finn says she's an heiress who's struggling to make it as an actress in Hollywood. The houses we're passing on the way are as over the top as my parents' place. Yeah, she's really struggling.

"So about this party—any decent prospects for hookups?" I want nothing more than to get totally wasted, grab some hot, legally-aged, equally wasted girl and find a room. No blond hair, no blue eyes. No supervision, or advice. No sarcasm. No talking.

"Yeah, man. So many possibilities."

"Awesomet." I'm thinking a tall, leggy, green-eyed brunette with huge tits. This is LA—I can't throw a rock and not hit one of those.

* * *

**Brittany  
**

Day three has not gone as I'd imagined it. Of course, neither did day two.

First, she showed up an hour late and hungover. She thought she was hiding it (with sunglasses—really?), but just because I'm personally naïve when it comes to getting drunk or doing drugs doesn't mean I don't know it when I see it. Frankly, her slightly bloodshot eyes and lack of energy—coupled with the lateness and an even more stubborn attitude than the previous day —almost pushed me over the edge. I wanted to bundle her right back into the backseat of her fancy car and send her home. I'm supposed to be above such reactions. Some social worker I'll make. She was a walking safety liability. There was no way I could leave her alone with a paint roller, not to mention what paint fumes might do to her in her already limited physical condition. Anything with tools, especially power tools, was out. The only task I could imagine assigning to her was helping to lay soil in the back yard.

Determined to get back to work, I left her outside with Ken, who's in charge of landscaping. When I came out to check on her just before lunch, hoping she hadn't given Ken any trouble, she was standing in the middle of the halfsodded yard, shirtless, leaning on a fence and chatting up a cute girl in cut-offs and a red tank top. Judging by the cooler at her feet, she was supposed to be passing out bottles of water. When she turned, I saw that she was Sophia Brooke's, the daughter of the people who would soon own this house—and into whose rental house Santana had crashed her car. Her family of five was living in a motel room because of her, and she was smiling up at her like she could crash into her house any old time, no big deal.

When she spotted me standing on the porch, she touched her arm and said something that made her turn. Our eyes locked. Without severing that connection, she took a long swallow from the water bottle, leaned close to her and spoke. At the sound of their laughter, my patience snapped. I stomped back inside and finished painting a second coat of pink on Sophia's bedroom walls and a coat of primer on the boys' room without stopping for lunch or a break.

By the time Dad arrived to pick me up, the muscles in my back were screaming for mercy. Santana must have gotten Ken to sign her sheet, because I hadn't seen her again until this morning. We finished the master bed and bath walls today, not speaking unless necessary. She sat with Sophia at lunch, which made me uneasy.

As I scrawl my name on the line marking the completion of her third day, I say, "You're not here to socialize, you're here to assist with construction of the house, and possibly become more communally aware." She gapes before making a remark about my (f-word) humanitarianism and how she doesn't need a savior and if she did, it wouldn't be me. Instead of biting my tongue, I tell her I wouldn't give her a glass of water if her hair was on fire, nor does she ever have to worry about me trying to save her because I learned years ago that some people aren't worth the effort.

"What—so according to you, someone like me isn't worthy of redemption?" She smirks at such a ridiculous notion. I turn away from her smug expression and begin sweeping the floor of the bathroom.

"I don't believe in wasting my time on hopeless cases." She laughs.

"What about me screams hopeless?" I don't bother to look at her.

"What doesn't scream hopeless?" I sweep a pile of dust into the corner, "From your language to your lack of morals to your inability to consider anyone's needs but your own"

"I'm here, in this shithole neighborhood, volunteering to do manual labor—"

"Volunteering? Manual labor? Really?" I scoff, ignoring her elitist estimation of the respectable blue collar neighborhood. "First, you're here by court order, and second, you don't do as much by lunch as the rest of us do before you arrive. You're done for the day the exact moment your plea bargain agreement specifies, or before, if you get distracted by something, or someone." She's actually worked harder than I'd expected her to, but her superior attitude just makes my usual unbiased judgment fly out the window.

"Ah, so I noticed an attractive girl. That's your problem? Jealous?" I sputter and shake my head.

"No, far from it. You disgust me." She laughs.

"Disgust? That's a little strong—"

"No. Trust me, it's really not strong enough. If you'll excuse me, I have actual constructive things to do—"

"What exactly gives you the right to judge me?" she asks, ignoring my attempt to

dismiss her. Something about her deadly calm tone makes me look up as she towers over me. I stand slowly. She's at least few inches shorter and we're not two feet apart in the small space, but this women doesn't scare me. I see right through her arrogant indignation, so accustomed to getting what she wants that denial is incomprehensible. In all honesty there might be something worthwhile in there, but it doesn't matter because she'll never acknowledge its existence. I'm calm, because now I know why I felt such a wave of sadness when I met her.

"Like you said—you don't want saving, Santana. That makes any effort pointless, assuming I planned to bother trying—which I do not." My voice is as composed as hers, but my anger has fallen away while hers still radiates from her like heat waves off of pavement.

"Ms. Lopez, your car is here," Holly says from the doorway.

"Thanks," she says without turning. Hyper-aware of the fact that she's still

next to me, I refuse to acknowledge her further. She can stand there until her legs collapse for all I care.

"So you only rescue those who fit into your idea of worth? Doesn't seem like a very christian thing to me. Seems a little hypocritical." She turns and walks out, the front door slamming a moment later. So ends day three. This is going to be tougher than I thought. I didn't mean to let it get to this point, I honestly didn't. Like driving in freeway traffic, Santana just brings out the devil in me.

I take a deep breath, and then another. I have an hour or two until Dad gets here—plenty of time to push Santana from my mind. Except for a nagging insinuation, one I'm not even sure she's aware of having made. I called her a hopeless case, and she called me a hypocrite for writing her off as someone not worth saving—right after telling me she doesn't need saving.

So I can't help wondering—was she merely determined on winning a verbal battle, or did Santana Lopez just tell me she wants to be rescued from herself?

* * *

**Santana  
**

You disgust me . This is such an unprecedented statement that I have no idea what to do with it. If she was anyone else, I'd reject it as prejudice because I'm young, famous, rich, entitled—I've heard it all, or thought I had. The only other reason for unreasonable animosity is the random girl who doesn't turn out to be the love of my life after a hot one-nighter—and is somehow surprised by this. Please.

Could Brittany be resentful that I haven't made an effort to get into her unfashionable shorts? I thought I had her pegged as the sort who wants nothing short of respect, though she can take a fair amount of mockery and come back strangely unaffected. She may be the most patient person I've ever encountered, besides Mike. No matter what I do, including showing up an hour late with a massive hangover, she tolerates it. Maybe that's her weird way of showing attraction. Maybe there's a girl under those ginormous t-shirts who just wants attention like the rest of them. Or maybe I'd add a sexual harassment charge to the drunk driving conviction.

Three weeks and two days to go. I've worked on movie sets that were way more grueling, endured costars who were ridiculously unprofessional and survived directors whose egotistical outbursts would send Brittany running for cover. Three and a half weeks and I'll be back to my life.

Finn is about to chew through my last nerve. He and some other guys want to go out tonight. There are no worthy parties, so they've decided to bounce through a few clubs. And they want me along because I can usually get us all in anywhere, plus VIP treatment.

Most nights, no problem. Happy to oblige. Tonight, I'm dead—and I already had a couple of seven and sevens to cool down after that exchange with Brittany. The last thing I need is noise, people and paparazzi. I just want to stay home and flip through the channels until I fall asleep, so I can get up again tomorrow and take a hired car to a pathetic unfinished house that I'm helping to build and landscape… God, what an out-of-character inclination. Finn is having none of it.

"Come on, man, just a couple of hours. Why not?" He's like a whiny toddler. A self-absorbed, full-grown, 21-year-old toddler.

"Because I'm exhausted and sunburned and have to get up at the crack of ass again tomorrow, not that you give a shit."

"It's summer!"

"So?"

"Time to go out and party, not hibernate!"

"Finn, we live in Los Angeles. It's never time to hibernate. Whatever. I'm dead. We'll go out Friday."

"Fine," he says, dejected. "If me and the guys are bored to death by then, it's on you.

I don't bother answering beyond repeating, "Friday," and hanging up. I have a backup of texts all basically wanting the same thing. Parties I'm invited to, parties someone wants entrance to, requests to go out, people bored out of their minds and everyone wanting to score the next high to escape it. After making sure none of the texts or missed calls are from Mike, I toss the phone on the table next to my bed and turn up the volume on the television before clicking it off again and walking around my room, clinking the ice at the bottom of my glass.

I'm restless, and I never get restless. At the first hint of it, I'm usually out the door, not stalking around my room like a prisoner in a cell. What am I staying in for, anyway? So I don't have a hangover tomorrow morning that Brittany will disapprove of?

Why would I even give a shit what she sanctions as acceptable behavior—she's probably at home knitting or some shit. I grab the phone and call Finn, who's on his way before I can change my mind.

A couple of nights ago I wanted to find the opposite of Brittany Pierce, but that didn't banish her from my head. Tonight I'm searching for her twin, as impossible as it will be to find someone so plain in the hangouts we frequent. Once I find her, I'll be damned if she isn't begging me to screw her up against the bathroom wall before me and the guys take off.

* * *

**I HAVE ONLY SOME CLUE WHERE I'M GOING WITH THIS. BUT FEEDBACK WOULD BE GREAT, SO IF YOU FEEL LIKE REVIEWING!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Brittany  
**

"Hey, Britt. When do you leave for Málaga?" Deb must be exhausted, but she always makes time for me. I guess she could tell in our last few texts that I'm stressed. She can always tell. It's like she's had a wireless connection to me since I was born.

"Twenty days."

"Got it down to days, huh?" I hear the smile in her voice. "Are you counting down the seconds 'til you leave LA?"

"You have no idea."

"So… I hear you've got a daily celebrity sighting at Habitat." I sigh heavily and moan, lying back on my bed.

"Let's not talk about her." Deb laughs.

"Oh, come on. You don't want to talk about her even a little? Hmm."

"What?"

"I was eight when you were born, ; I know you pretty well. If you don't want to talk about her at all, she must be frustrating you in some profound way."

"Trust me, there's nothing profound about her. She's as superficial and self-absorbed as you'd assume." Great. I'm almost sputtering.

"All right, all right, I'm just teasing." Deb is rarely unkind. She's one aspect of my life that gives me the most joy and the most guilt. I have a loving and supportive family, always enough money for necessities—food, clothing, books—while others have poverty, neglect, illness, and the constant hunger of never enough. For some reason this line of thinking makes me think of Santana, which is absurd. She has every advantage and more, with no excuse for forcing her egocentricity on people who have so much less.

Pushing her from my mind, I ask Deb about her residency. After four years of college and another four years of medical school, she's finally Dr. Deborah Pierce. To become the pediatrician she's always wanted to be, she'll be working crazy long hours for the next three years, makingbarely enough to feed herself and begin paying back her student loans.

"You wouldn't believe how many ER cases are drug seekers." She sighs, frustrated. "They're desperate for a fix, so they come in with phony symptoms. The more experienced doctors assume that everyone who gives 'pain' as a symptom is a fraud. We keep a list of the repeat offenders." I try to imagine my sister in that environment, with her social idealism and her ambition to help people.

"Maybe you're just what those other doctors need—a balance to the pessimism."

"Well, it's going to be a long three years."

"So… met any cute doctors?" She laughs at my change of subject.

"Yes, actually—one of the attending physicians. But as luck would have it, he's also the most cynical. Last night, he almost missed a possible placental abruption because the mother-to-be is a known addict. She claimed severe back pain, and he

was about to send her out the door with Tylenol. I convinced him to let me do an ultrasound on her, for practice, and we had to do an emergency Csection.

If she'd gone home, the baby would have died and the patient could have bled to death."

"Wow." I'm not sure exactly what she's talking about, but it sounds intimidating. "You saved their lives, Deb."

"Yeah, well. She swore she hasn't used since she knew she was pregnant, but to him, once an addict, always an addict." She breathes an exasperated sigh.

"We know that's not true." Our parents have helped dozens of people kick all types of drug addiction through the years. Though a depressing majority start using again, some stay clean. Dad says he has to keep fighting for those few, because you never know who's capable of kicking it for good.

"Ben was brought up in a different environment than we were. He didn't know much about addicts or poverty until he became a doctor. I got him to talk about it a little bit today. He grew up in an upper middle class suburb, and the worst thing he encountered was other kids who smoked pot. To him, someone who's hooked on cocaine or meth is forever hopeless."

I think of Santana, and how I told her she was hopeless. How angry she was that I deemed her unworthy of my time or attention. I don't know if she's addicted to any particular substances, though she's certainly addicted to her lifestyle. But is she hopeless? Maybe she's right. Maybe my snap judgment concerning her makes me a hypocrite.

"So you're educating Ben about real life, eh?"

"I'm attempting to, but he's the most opinionated, infuriating man I've dealt with since Dr. Moss in second year pathology." Deb almost quit medical school because of Dr. Moss, until Mom convinced her to go back and prove she was made of tougher stuff than that.

After I hang up, I lie on my bed thinking about my sister fighting for an ex-addict. She was right this time, but she won't always be. That's just how she is.

* * *

**Santana  
**

"Supermodel checking you out, two o'clock."

I glance one direction and then the other. "Finn, that's ten o'clock." Aside from his inability to remember how to tell time on the face of an actual clock, my wingman is correct. Actual supermodel. Actually checking me out. And now that I've noticed, she's walking over. Stick-figure thin, she swings non-existent hips, a long way from any Brittany Pierce doppelganger.

"Hey there," Finn says.

"Hello," she offers me her hand. "I'm Brianna." Of course she is. And the only reason I'll remember her name tomorrow is because it's close to that of a girl she doesn't resemble at all, who I can't stop thinking about for some insane reason.

"I'm Santana." In her heels, we stand eye-to-eye. Makeup flawless, dark eyes half-mast and fringed with violet, she smiles when I graze her knuckles with my lips.

"Yes, I know. Santana Lopez." She knows who I am. Better and better.

"And I'm Finn." Her gaze never wavers from my face; Finn doesn't even register with her, though he's not a bad-looking guy. He might be a little tall for her, even in heels—but she's got to be used to that. She's extremely short. I motion to the waitress to bring her another drink.

"Where are you from, Brianna?" Her accent is eastern European.

"I am from Russia."

"So what brings you to LA?" I couldn't care less about her answer; it's just part of the game.

"The breathtaking women, of course," she laughs, tossing waves of dark hair over her shoulder. Her look is calculated, and I chuckle along with her to confirm that I've grasped her insinuation.

"Also I am doing, how do you say it, a spread for Elle magazine." I sense a vulgar comment coming from Finn and flash him my shut-the-hell-up face. To my amazement, he complies. The waitress removes the near-empty glass from Brianna's fingers and hands her a fresh drink.

"It is rather loud here," she says, sipping.

"Well, this is a nightclub."

"I know a quiet bar nearby," Finn interjects, but he might as well be mute, for all the attention she's paying to him.

"My hotel is a few blocks away. It is more comfortable. Less noisy. You will come with?" I regard her for a moment longer. There's no reason to say no. No reason at all.

* * *

**Brittany  
**

I pull the stirring stick out of the paint to test it, dribbling a spiral onto the smooth white surface, where the liquid squiggles disappear almost instantly. Perfect. I take a satisfied breath.

Identical to the past three days, work slows to a standstill when Santana arrives. Now that she's acquainted with the layout of the house, I'm determined not to go looking for her. When the scent of caffeine mingles with the odor of the paint, I know she's found me. I close my eyes for a count to three and a breath of composure before I turn, straightening. She's holding two Starbucks cups, one of which ahe extends towards me.

"Truce?" I take the cup, confused. She's smirking, having anticipated my reaction. "It's a double-shot soy latte. If you hate it, my driver can go back and get something else…" Blinking, I wonder what kind of stalking she did to know my favorite coffee drink. Right. Because a celebrity is going to stalk me.

"No, this is… fine. Thank you." She glances around the small bathroom, takes a sip from her cup. "Second coat on the cabinets and trim today, right?"

"Um. Yes, that's right."

"You finished the tiling? How late did you stay?" She looks impressed, her fingers reaching towards the wall. "Is it okay to touch it?" I nod.

"Sure. It's dry."

Stroking one finger across the glossy white squares, she says, "They're so even." Her laughter is unlike the cocku chuckle I've become accustomed to over the past few days.

"If I'd done this, it would look like a shitty optical illusion." Her half-grin dares me to disagree. My mouth pulls up on one side, involuntarily.

"Um, thanks."

When I finish cleaning the master bath shower, I check to see if Santana is on task with the cabinets in the second bathroom. I hear Sophia's voice before I round the corner, so I hover just outside the door, listening.

"I just want to live my life, you know? I don't care about college. I've been in school long enough." From what I remember of a conversation with her mother, Sophia spent the past six weeks in summer school after having floundered her way through tenth grade, more interested in boys and partying than keeping up with her assignments.

"Mmm-hmm." She's noncommittal, when I would be trying to discourage such a foolish decision.

"I want to be a model. And then an actress, you know, later. After I'm too old to do, like, swimsuit shoots and stuff."

"Sophia?" They both start at the sound of my voice, which echoes in the small room. I pretend not to notice their matching reactions. "I thought you were working outside with Ken today?" She glares at me, petulant.

"I was just taking a break."

"Ah," I say pleasantly, leaning a shoulder on the doorjamb and pointedly waiting for her to leave. She huffs a sigh and rolls her eyes, turning back to Santana.

"See you at lunch?"

"Sure." Her eyes flick to her and straight back to the cabinet, stroking the brush downward with the wood grain, remarkably straight. As she dips the brush into the paint, she looks up at me. "Need something, boss?"

"She's only sixteen, you know." The brush stills and she crooks an eyebrow, eyeing me.

"I'm aware of that."

"Are you?"

"What's it to you?" Her voice is pure challenge, her eyes narrowed. I straighten, running my finger along the groove in the door trim.

"She's the daughter of the people for whom we're building this house. I feel a responsibility to them where she's concerned."

"A responsibility to what?" I glance at her and know she's more than aware of what she's doing. Making me spell it out. Fine. I can do that.

"A responsibility to make sure the court-ordered 'volunteer' understands that she needs to keep her distance from the underage girl while on this property." She stares at me for a moment.

"So if I run into her off property, for instance—"

"No. That's not what I mean. I mean… just stay away from her, period. Why would you even—I don't get why—don't you ever want to be a better person?" My breath catches. I can't believe I just said that.

"Okay, what?" she says, taken aback. That was so out of line, but before I can backtrack, she slams the brush down, surrounding it with a halo splatter of paint on the plastic sheeting. She stands up and glares down at me.

"What I choose to do or not di is none of your business. Who I choose to fuck or not fuck is also none of your business. Shit." Shouldering past me, she goes straight out into the back yard. I should follow her and apologize, but I doubt she wants to hear anything I have to say.

Besides, I'm right about Sophia. She's young and she's starstruck. In no way are they on an equal playing field. I may think she's a little brat, but that doesn't stop me from wanting to keep her from ending up emotionally damaged by a women like Santana Lopez.

So much for that truce.

* * *

**Santana  
**

What the hell is it with this girl? No matter what I do, I can't catch a break from her nonstop condemnation. Truth? That Sophia chick is hot, so in the interest of not being bored out of my damn mind, I don't mind her flirting with me. I'd also be willing to bet she's no virgin. But virgin or not, she should be hooking up with some girl or guy her own age, if that's what she wants, not some women who's well past

eighteen. And since I'm not a complete idiot, I don't need to be told that.

When I said that thing about taking her off the property, I was just pointing out the big fat hole in Brittany's reasoning. Sophia Brooke is jailbait anywhere, not just "on this property." (Side effect of having a crack attorney for my paternal role model: if you're going to argue a point with me, don't leave gaps in your logic.)

I'm so pissed my hands are shaking. Usually this type of response follows a chat with my dad, after which I retreat to the basement to pound the shit out of a hundred pound heavy bag. We've got an entire gym setup down there; my trainer meets me several times a week when I'm not on location. Or performing compulsory community service.

The back yard is thickly populated, and of course this is where Sophia was banished. Judging by the look on her face, she assumes I followed her outside. When she glances at me with a provocative smile, a boredom-exterminating scheme pops into my head. One that will drive Brittany batshit crazy for the next three weeks. Community service just got considerably more interesting.

* * *

**Brittany  
**

I'll give her ten minutes to throw her temper tantrum before I bring her back inside. She needs to understand that messing around with Sophia is unacceptable. I would march outside and say it just like that, but she's evidently taking anything I say as a dare, which is the last thing I want.

Finally, I settle on apologizing to her for the better person comment, and discussing my anxiety concerning Sophia with Holly, privately. Hopefully she can keep an eye on the situation. Without me involved, Santana won't feel goaded to do something

everyone would regret.

The back yard is bursting with volunteers because we got a shipment of trees and shrubs yesterday, which should be transplanted from containers to ground promptly. It doesn't take long to locate Santana, because every man in the yard and most of the women are watching her. Much as I'd like to, I can't blame them. The sight of her is simply compelling.

While digging a hole for one of the three live oaks that will line the back fence and provide shade for the yard, she's in only a vest and drenched in sweat. Hard lines of definition ripple across her back and shoulders as she as she plunges the shovel into the ground, heaving mounds of earth out and piling it to the side. Her jeans ride low on her hips, showing off her enviable movie-star abs. Muscles flexing and contracting, it's clear that what she's doing is strenuous, yet she doesn't slow or tire when other volunteers take wheezing breaks for water. Looks like I'll be finishing the cabinets myself.

Before I turn to go back inside, I spot Sophia standing a few feet from Santana. After tossing one glaring look my way, she flips her glossy black hair over her shoulder and turns back to watch her. Though she's only two years younger than me, it feels like a lifetime of difference. Testing her sexuality, she thinks she's caught a beautiful fish, when in reality, she's netted a shark. As soon as she gets too close, she could snap through the fragile filaments and consume her.

I want to trust Santana not to be what I fear she is, but I know better. There's not a trustworthy bone in that impeccably toned body.

* * *

**Santana  
**

I haven't seen Brittany since I left her standing in the bathroom with her mouth hanging open. I wanted some privacy to get my shit together after that exchange, but with a yard full of people, solitude wasn't an option. So, I did the next best thing—I grabbed a shovel and dug a big fucking hole.

By lunch break, we've planted three trees and half the shrubs. Brittany materializes outside, talking with some moron I haven't seen before today. They load their paper plates and she takes the lawn chair next to him, eating her burger while he talks. She seems engrossed in his monologue. Either that or she's too polite to be real with people other than myself.

Sophia is literally sitting at my feet in the still-patchy new sod. I don't have to do anything to keep her enthralled outside of an occasional smile. She's jabbering about her modeling and acting aspirations, her loathing of school and her immature classmates, and what kind of car her older ex-girlfriend drove. (A Mustang? Please.) I think this last is an attempt to illustrate her experience with girls. And/or fast cars.

"The car you had was a Porsche, right?" She flutters her lashes as though this isn't a strange subject for her to bring up, or for us to discuss.

"Um, yeah. Had being the key word." Her eyes widen.

"I guess you're pretty pissed it got wrecked, huh?" As though my car wrecked itself.

"You could say that." She lays her hand on my knee. _Subtle_.

"Aw, I'm really sorry, San." I can't help but chuckle. This is the most awkward exchange ever.

"You're sorry… that I drove my Porsche into your house?"

"It's not like you did it on purpose." I laugh out loud and smile down at her,

"Well, that's true. I wish you'd been the judge in my case." She beams up at me. I hazard a glance at Brittany, who's staring daggers into me. I swear if we were within striking distance and she had a plastic fork in her hand, I'd be concerned. Instead of returning her heated expression, I keep the grin affixed to my face and add a look of indifference for good measure. This look has been refined to perfection over many years with Dad. Sends him through the goddamned roof. Does it work on Brittany? Oh, yes. Yes, it does. I can hear the guy next to her saying.

"Uh, Britt? Did you hear what I—" just before she leaps up and charges inside without answering him. From the look on his face, this is uncharacteristic behavior for her. I think I'll spend the last couple of hours planting shrubs, and get Ken to sign my sheet. No sense in pushing her too far this afternoon. I have two and a half weeks to harass her to the edge of insanity.

* * *

**Brittany  
**  
"I understand your concern, Britt, but I don't think she'll actually do anything…" Holly's sentence trails off indecisively. It's up to me to convince her.

"I'd be less concerned if Sophia was assigned to work with someone who'll keep a better eye on her, that's all." I feel like I'm tattling. Having just told the project director that I suspect an adult volunteer of socializing too warmly with a juvenile volunteer, I guess I am tattling. "Just to be safe," I add. She taps her pen on her clipboard, gnawing her lower lip.

"Well, the least confrontational thing might be to reassign Sophia to you, and reassign Santana to Ken." A confusing sense of disappointment settles over me, but I shake it off.

"That works for me."

"Sophia doesn't come in on Fridays, so I'll leave Santana with you tomorrow, and I'll talk to her about moving to Ken's crew next week before she leaves for the day. We'll get Sophia situated on Monday."

"Thanks, Holly."

"Yes, well, better safe than sorry, I suppose." She bustles off as I clean up for the day and prepare for tomorrow. Santana is going to be furious at the interference, and Sophia will probably have a meltdown when she isn't allowed to hang around Santana anymore. There's no way for her to see that we're trying to protect her; the separation will look like pure malice from her point of view.

My last day to supervise Santana has been almost stress-free. She showed up on time and made no comments or snide remarks (other than calling me  
Britt all day, She hasn't earned the right to that, but what can I say to since it is my name). She was a model volunteer. My iPod fried itself last night, so I brought a radio this morning and had it tuned to a pop station when she came in. I told her she could change it to whatever she wanted, but she hasn't moved the station. As we're wrapping up for the day, the DJ plays a new duet. Without realizing it, I hum along. At the end chorus, Santana turns to me and sings into her paintbrush,

"Where were you, baby, where were you? When I was all alone, with no one of my own?" I sing back,

"Where were you, baby, where were you? When I needed you there, when nobody else cared?"

"I was here, I was right here, looking for you, yeah…" we both sing, and then we laugh at our own goofiness.

"You have a great voice," she says, but not like she's surprised. I lower my glance and mumble,

"Thanks," oddly pleased. Coming from her the words feel different, as though I haven't heard that exact expression of praise a hundred times before.

From the doorway, Holly says, "Ms. Lopez, could you see me before you leave? I'll be in the kitchen, checking the sink hookups."

"No problem." Sliding her eyes back to me when she disappears, her head tilts a fraction to the side and she asks, "What's that about?" Oh crap. With Sophia gone all day, I almost forgot about her and the supervisor swap occurring on Monday.

"Um, something about work assignments. Probably."

"Work assignments? I thought you were the boss of me." Her smile is tentative, like she's teasing me but also testing to see if there's something I'm not telling her. Coward that I am, I shrug and begin cleaning the paintbrushes, and Santana is silent for a moment before she hammers the lid onto a bucket of paint and then places her folded time sheet on the floor next to me. "I'll swing by to pick this up after I talk to Holly."

When she returns five minutes later, I brace for an offensive comment or another arguement over my unwelcome judgments or interference, but neither occurs. She snatches the paper I've signed without a word and leaves. As she storms out, I cringe, guilt-ridden after the friendly way in which we spent the day. At the inevitable slam of the front door, someone in the hall exclaims, "Jesus!" and a moment later, I remember to breathe.

Monday is going to be a nightmare.

Sam is coming over tonight. After he showed up at the Brooke House yesterday—a breath of fresh air in his non-designer jeans and thrift store t-shirt  
—I couldn't say no when he asked if we could hang out.

I hear his voice downstairs, his courteous, "Good evening, Reverend Pierce," though Dad has urged him countless times to call him Dan. As I leave my room, I glance at the clock on my wall. He's exactly on time, the minute hand clicking onto the twelve as my father intones, "Good evening, Samuel." Sam fails to hear the playful nature I immediately recognize behind Dad's words.

"It's actually just Sam, sir." He spares a quick look in my direction as I reach the last step.

"And it's just Dan, Sam." My father slaps his shoulder lightly.

"Do you want to go out?" Sam asks after Dad disappears back into his study. "I think that movie starring your new best friend is out… Playing For Keeps, right? I heard it was… cute." Sam isn't into cute, and generally speaking, neither am I.

I'd not even considered seeing Playing For Keeps, but now that Sam's mentioned it, I'm curious. I know Santana Lopez from her fame, but I know nothing of her so-called talent. I've never seen a single one of her movies—like Sam, I don't really term them films. A movie is hollow entertainment. Oh god. I'm a film snob. Despite my sudden compulsion to see Santana's movie, there's no way I'm sitting through it with Sam.

"Let's order Chinese and watch something here. Dad just got a new batch of DVDs." Sam smiles his agreement. Pulling the takeout menu from our menu drawer and grabbing the phone, I remind myself not to think of Santana again tonight.

"I'm getting sesame chicken. Anything with chicken is pretty good. Their beef dishes, not so much." When the food arrives, Dad materializes momentarily.

"Would you like to watch the movie with us, Rever—uh, Dan?" Sam asks. Dad sighs and shakes his head.

"I won't be leaving the study until your mother comes home." Then he winks at me, as though Sam and I plan to canoodle on the sofa (a Dad term). Mom's shift ends at midnight. I'm never sure if Dad just has absolute confidence that I'd never do anything like that, or if he actually thinks I should loosen up. I hope it's not  
the latter, because if I'm the girl whose pastor father thinks she's too uptight, that would be pretty depressing.

Sam takes the center of the sofa while I nestle into the corner, legs crossed. His elbow rests lightly on my bent knee in between bites. Everyone in my family tends to comment throughout anything we watch, but Sam never talks during films. It's a sure bet I'll end up biting my tongue figuratively or literally at least half a dozen times. Finally, the credits roll.

"That was less clever than the reviews promised," he observes, clicking the remote. His hand rests lightly on my knee, a non-insistent pressure not easily read. The world has gone dark outside, the room dim in the lamplight without the glow of the screen.

"Your house is always so quiet. Mine is the exact opposite—contained chaos." Sam has a younger brother and sister, and his house is in an almost constant uproar. I've wondered but never had the nerve to ask if he ever yearned for the individual attention he would have been due as an only child, or if he felt neglected by his parents' dedicated care of his siblings.

My eyes find our elderly cat, curled on her pillowed bed across the room. "That's true, Tubbs and I don't produce a lot of commotion." His ears perk at the sound of his name, black eyes blinking as he waits to see if I require his attention. Sam leans into my line of vision, pushing thoughts of Tubbs from my mind as he inclines his head and kisses me. His lips are warm and his kiss careful and gentle. I kiss him back, wishing he would deepen the kiss, that his hand would stroke my leg, or stray to my waist to pull me closer. None of these things occur. This is not our first kiss, but each one we've shared has been the same: pleasant.

He pulls away, smiling. I smile back, and tell myself I'm not disappointed. Neither am I in danger of losing control. Which is good. Safe. And exactly what I need.  
Tubbs huffs a soft sigh from his bed and closes his eyes. Sam is no risk to me.

* * *

**I already had the first 4 chapters written out, and I have most of the next chapter ready to go, so I'm hoping to update in a day or so. Review if you feel like it!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Santana  
**

Brittany doesn't trust me. I've got that much figured out. She clearly has no idea of what a women in my position is offered on a daily basis. I could sleep with a different girl, or several, every night. There's always another one, ready to go. I've had offers—_which I absolutely do not accept_—from girls so young it makes me want to track down their parents and tell them they should be arrested for raising baby whores. I won't fuck some chick who thinks she's all grown up just because she's experienced.

I underestimated Brittany's determination to keep the Brooke's girl away from me. Not only did she manage to get me moved outside with Ken permanently, she's now supervising Sophia herself. I'm not sure what was expected from this arrangement, but I bet it wasn't the shit-fit that went down this morning when Sophia found out about it. Allegedly, she picked up a hammer and threw it. Not at a person, but supposedly it narrowly missed a window and lodged itself in the drywall. I didn't witness this meltdown, but thanks to Ken being a gossip addict (weird I know), everyone outside stays fully informed of every rumor inside or out. It's not unlike a mini movie set.

"Holly threatened to call her mother and send her home if she didn't calm down, but Sophia still owes at least thirty hours." Ken looks at me and shrugs. "I had no idea that girl would miss working with me so much."

"In your dreams, old man," quips his wife, Shannon, who's loading bedding plants into a wheelbarrow.

"Come on, kid, let's get these sunflowers in the ground." I realize she's talking to me when no one else moves. By lunch I've learned how to plant sunflowers ("Not too deep! Not so close together!"), and the fact that Ken and Shannon relocated to LA five years ago, declared themselves bored stupid six months later, and decided to design landscaping for Habitat homes instead of going on cruises and taking up crafts.

"What did Ken mean, about Sophia owing thirty hours?" I'm staring at my hands, which are filthy. I couldn't plant flowers with gloves on so there are solid black lines of dirt under all ten fingernails. My manicurist is going to kill me.

"The families approved to get a house have to put in a few hundred hours of 'sweat equity.' Sophia's parents both work two jobs, and her brothers are too young to put in time." She gives me a weird look. "Up until last week, Sophia, was totally uninterested in helping out." I follow her to the tap where she rinses off the hand tools we just used. She doesn't elaborate.

"And…"

"And then _you_ became a… volunteer." Ah.

"So you think my presence, er, motivated her to participate." She nods, giving me that squinty, I-see-through-you look. Shit. Has Brittany alerted everyone that I'm preying on the under-aged girl?

"Look, I'm not interested in Sophia. She's a child. I want nothing to do with her, okay?" Several things happen at once. Shannon blinks, eyebrows rising, as she stares over my shoulder. In the same moment, I hear a strangled whimper and rapidly retreating footsteps.

* * *

**Brittany  
**

I knew Friday that I was in for it today with Sophia. I spent the whole weekend dreading it. Even so, I misjudged the level her outrage would reach at being separated from Santana. I should have known. The sound of the hammer hitting the wall was, oddly enough, the catalyst for calming her. I think it stunned her that she could do something so destructive. Thank God no one was in the path of that airborne tool. Holly, Sophia and I stood there in shock for a full minute before Holly cleared her throat and asked,

"Maybe you're too upset to work today?"

Sophia's answer was a whisper delivered towards her feet. "No." Holly and I exchanged a look and I gave her a faint nod.

"All right, then. Follow Brittany, and I'll see you at lunch break." Sophia and I spent the morning patching the damaged kitchenette drywall, followed by measuring, marking and drilling holes in every cabinet door in the whole house. My ears were ringing from the constant high whine of the drill in confined spaces. Sophia hadn't uttered a single word during the entire three hours.

"Two more and then it's time for lunch," I said, turning to find she wasn't in the room. I had no idea how long she'd been gone, but I had a good idea where I could find her.

"Lord, give me strength" I muttered, stalking towards the back door. I forgot to take off the goggles or leave the battery-powered drill behind. Thank the stars I was carrying the darned thing business end down, because as I yanked the back door open, Sophia bulleted through it. I jumped back as she lurched past me, crying.

"Sophia?" The sound of my voice only sped her up.

She shoved the front door open, throwing, "Leave me alone!" over her shoulder. The engine on her twenty-year-old clunker thundered to life out front a few seconds later. _Santana_. As I stride onto the back patio, she turns from where she stands with Shannon at the faucet.

"What did you do to her?" I step closer and lower my voice when I notice the audience of people pretending not to listen. I don't care about embarrassing her, but Sophia's distress is no one else's business. "What did you say to her?" I hiss. Her eyes travel the length of me, just as she did last week when we met, except today her gaze lingers on my legs. Her answer is all lazy indifference.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Shoving the goggles onto my head, I raise my chin.

"I'm talking about Sophia, who just stormed through the house, very upset. Stop acting like you're oblivious, when we both know you're the one who caused it." She steps closer and looks down at me.

"I didn't do or say a thing to her." She gestures towards Shannon without breaking our eye contact. "And I have a rock-solid alibi, Brittany." Shannon, steps closer.

"Brittany, calm down, hon. Sophia came outside and overheard something she misunderstood, that's all. She'll get over it." I am stunned speechless. I cannot believe this. She's managed to win over Shannon! Is there a woman in this world, besides me, who's immune to her? I turn and stomp back into the house without replying, which is incredibly rude of me and I'll have to apologize to her later.

I would dearly like to take a hammer to the drywall myself. It's too bad there's no demolition on this job.

After lunch (during which Santana and I sit on opposite sides of the yard), I grab the ratchet screwdriver set, gather the handles, knobs and screws, and head for the master bathroom. I've resigned myself to working alone for the rest of the day, which is fine with me, but it's boring with no music. I forgot to bring the radio today, and my iPod, tragically, is unfixable. If I want music, I'll have to provide it for myself.

Starting with the under-sink cabinets. By the time I'm adding the chrome handle, I've got a slow, steady beat going and I'm singing a soft song called "Hazy" by Rosi Golan. When I stand up to grab another hinge and set of screws for the next door, Santana is standing in the doorway, her hands shoved into her pockets. My voice falters, but I finish the last line before going silent. I don't know how long she's been there. For a moment she doesn't say anything, and then her eyes shift to the cabinet doors stacked against the wall.

"Holly sent me to help with the cabinets." I grab a door without replying and position it as I did the last one. Since the hinges will be placed on the opposite side from the last one, it won't be as easy to attach, but I know what I'm doing, and it's not an impossible job to do alone. Aside from the fact that I'd rather do it without her standing there staring at me. When she doesn't take the unspoken hint, I say,

"I don't need help."

I expect her to turn and go, but she doesn't. Bracing her shoulder against the doorjamb, she crosses her arms over her chest and watches me. I ignore her, balance the door, line up the hinge , and attempt to twist the screws in partway by hand. The first screw doesn't catch, pops out of the hinge and flies across the ceramic tile floor, stopping when it bumps against her boot. Without missing a beat I grab another screw and repeat the process, with an identical result.

"Holy Moses," I mutter, which earns a rude laugh from Santana as she leans to pick up the screws at her feet. She jingles them in her hand like Dad does with loose change.

"Any time you want me to hold something, or screw something, just let me know." Wonderful. A patented Santana Lopez double entendre.

Finally, the screws catch, and I offer up a silent prayer of thanks while wondering how much trouble I'd be in if I stood up and kicked her in the shin with my steel-toed boot. Hard.

* * *

**Santana  
**

I think she seriously wants to strangle me right now. I haven't decided if that's how I want her to feel or not.

I watch her attach the third cabinet door—the one with the hinges on the left. She's right-handed, so it's easy enough for her. The last thing she wants is my assistance. I'm weighing the desire to keep her irritation level as high as possible against the suspicion that the longer I linger in the doorway, the higher the likelihood she'll refuse to sign my timesheet at 3:00.

She sighs before lining up the hinges with the last door, and I imagine the words threading through her head as she pleads with the hardware to cooperate. The first time it begins to angle off course, I step up and take it from her, our fingers brushing. She jumps like my hand is fire, recovers quickly and begins twisting the screws in by hand. When they're in as far as they can go without the screwdriver's assistance, she picks up the tool and drives them in the rest of the way as I brace the door. She doesn't speak, and neither do I.

I hate that watching her handle that screwdriver is turning me on.

I hate that I'm waiting for an excuse to touch her again.

I hate that I narrowly resisted begging her to continue singing.

Following her to the next bathroom, I'm staring at the curved lines of her calves and the not-quite imperceptible sway of her hips (hidden under another oversized t-shirt—this one says D.A.R.E.). I get this sudden impression that she's psychic because I swear to God—her ears are darkening like she can read my mind. So I concentrate harder.

When she sets the tool on the counter, I pick it up. "I'll do the next one," I say when she turns and sees me holding it. "You're supposed to be teaching me, right?" Her mouth snaps closed and she spins back around to select the door. There are only two doors to install in this microscopic bathroom that all three Brooke kids will share.

The entire room would fit inside my shower. Two minutes later: I admit that I thought this whole working-with-tools thing would be easier than it is. Getting the fucking screw to stay connected with the driver bit is a bitch. One interesting note, though—despite some of my more colorful curses, it's obvious Brittany is enjoying the fact

that I don't have the innate ability to wield a ratchet screwdriver with ease. Her smile is a little too smug for my liking.

"I guess I'm not a natural at this type of screwing," I say, and my God, her face. I've just discovered the secret to spreading the blush everywhere.

"Okay, I don't get it. So… she's hot, or not?" Finn asks. We're hanging out on the terrace of his 22nd floor apartment , lounging on chairs, a cold six-pack on the glazed concrete between us. Downtown is alive and beckoning, but I've persuaded him, for the time being, to take a break for one night.

"It's hard to say," I answer, and he shoots me a confused look, tipping back the bottle in his hand as I stare out over the cityscape. For some reason, I mentioned something about Brittany, and now, I'd rather drop it.

"Tell me more about the apartment," I say. For the past couple of weeks, Finn's been trying to convince me to rent the penthouse suite that's opening up a few floors above him. I told him I'd think about it, though I'm not sure I want to be that near Finn 24/7. He starts rattling off square footage and view and party possibilities while I'm trying not to answer his question in my head.

Brittany Pierce: hot or not?

She's nothing like my usual fare. Nothing at all.

But that doesn't exactly answer the question, does it?

* * *

**Brittany  
**

"I miss you." I try not to sound like I'm pouting, but I feel Deb's absence more than I ever have. "You're so far away now." Technically, she's been gone for eight years, but she did her pre-med undergrad and med school close to home. Now she's in a different time zone, and the hours she keeps are impossible to figure out. Working a mind-numbing eighty hours a week at the hospital, she has no consistent schedule. Texting or calling me whenever she has five minutes has become the norm, if she isn't spending that five minutes eating or sleeping.

"I know, baby girl." She sounds exhausted and I feel guilty for sulking. "I miss you, too."

"How's, um, Ben?" She's quiet for a moment, and I read the silence between us.

"Britt, can you keep a secret?"

"Psshh," I say. "You know I'm the ultimate secret-keeper." I savor the sound of her warm chuckle in my ear.

"True. Well…we had sort of a date Sunday night. I mean, it wasn't a date, really… he just shared his take-out with me when I had ten minutes for dinner."

"Isn't he sort of one of your bosses?"

"He's not evaluating me—the one time we interacted was because he was stepping in for someone else…" The way her words trail off, she's either falling asleep on me, or she's thinking about what she isn't telling me. "So, um, how's the Habitat place going?"

"I'm counting the days until I'm gone." I'm thinking to myself Deb and Ben, sittin' in a tree… but I resolve to let her tell me about him at her own pace. We've never hidden anything from each other indefinitely.

"Santana still being a jackass?"

"Yeah, you could say that."

"You'll be in Málaga soon. By the time you return, her community service will be over, and you'll never have to see or work with her again."

"Yeah." I'm not disappointed at the thought of her absence. I'm not. She does nothing, says nothing unless it's calculated to make me uncomfortable.

"Hmm," Deb says, a subtle challenge before I change the subject to college concerns like dorm life and how to dodge the freshmen fifteen.

* * *

**Santana  
**

I was wondering when an uninvited film crew was going to show up. I'm actually surprised it took them this long. Paparazzi, as careless as they appear, know better than to trespass on personal property. But the Habitat property is tiny, and telescopic lenses are standard for these guys. Camped out in adjacent yards, the shrewd ones undoubtedly paid the neighbors off to get closer. This is the sort of thing Mike would term "free positive PR"—an occurrence that I, apparently, can't get too much of. The only hitch is the fact that I have to be here the rest of this week plus two more; this situation could morph into insanity central if it isn't managed.

Stripping the heavy work gloves off as I go, I wander inside to find Holly. She's talking to the general contractor about what grade of insulation to use in the attic. I could fall asleep from extreme disinterest any minute. Luckily, they finish up in a minute or so and she turns to me warily.

"Yes, um, Santana?"

"I just wanted to let you know that there are photogs out there—paparazzi—not on the property, but as close as they can legally get. With me outside, it's gonna be a zoo. Thought I should warn you."

"Oh." She's immediately flustered; obviously this is something new for her. She moves to a rear window. "They're out there now?"

"Yeah." Peering out, she narrows her eyes, scanning, and then gasps softly.

"What in the world? There's someone balancing on top of a swing set…and on the roof next door!" I shrug.

"What should we do? I guess I should have considered this probability…"

"They're not going anywhere, now that they know where I am. I already called my manager. He's sending bodyguards to make sure they keep their distance from me, and he's alerting the police to make sure they respect property boundaries."

"The police? Oh, dear." Holly continues to stare at the guy on the roof next door while I push off from the counter and head back outside, pulling the work gloves on. Ken says we're demolishing an old fence at the back of the property—so termite-ridden that one good kick could turn it into a cloud of splinters. Painting walls was tedious. Tearing shit down? Not. Predictably, the photogs wake up when I exit the back door. Some of them try calling to me, like I'm walking the red carpet or something, which pisses me off.

I'm working. Can't they see that?

* * *

**Brittany  
**

As I fell asleep last night, I considered telling Holly to finish this job without me. I miss my kids and their joyful, artless dancing arrangements. I miss singing along with them while they move. I miss babysitting people who are immature because they're six, not because they're arrogant buttheads. Most of all, I miss being unacquainted with Santana Lopez.

Just when I think to myself what next, it turns out I shouldn't have wondered. Of course the paparazzi would show up. There's an A-list celebrity on the premises. Pressed against the living room wall like a ninja assassin, I peek out the window. Santana continues to work, paying no attention to the photographers, who are simply everywhere. They remind me of a nature special about army ants that I watched in a state of unmoving horror when I was seven. Devouring everything in their collective path. I couldn't sleep for a week, until Deb convinced me that African army ants weren't generally known to raid California.

Exhausted after a night of tossing and turning, I consider whether or not I'm hungry enough to risk appearing in even the outer fringes of those photos. This is ridiculous. Several hours stand between me and my next meal. I shouldn't feel the need to skulk around inside because of some silly photographers. Besides, they aren't interested in me. The Plan: go out, grab something to eat, dash back inside.

Minutes later, I'm skirting the crowd with a bowl of fruit and an iced tea when one of our corporate volunteers veers directly towards me, ogling the photographers gathered on the neighbor's roof. Realizing too late that she doesn't see me, I scoot as close to the patio edge as possible. As she passes, our sleeves grazing, I exhale in relief. And then she whips around and accidentally elbows me right off the patio's four-foot no-railing-installed-yet drop.

Everything is slow-motion. Eyes widening, mouth rounding into a shocked "O," she grabs for me as I lurch over the edge, backwards. She catches nothing but air, and neither do I. The bowl flies up, chunks of fruit tossed in every direction. The tea levitates from the cup in an arc above me. And though I know I've generated a squeak of surprise, I can't hear anything—it's as though the world has been muted.

If you've never fallen and been caught by someone before, I am here to tell you that the landing is not as smooth and effortless as Hollywood portrays it to be. In reality, parts land where they land, and though hitting a human body is probably less painful than hitting the ground, it's not like landing on a sofa or a trampoline or anything that gives. My limbs still flailing uselessly, my head slams against a shoulder and I knee myself in the chin as the body I've tumbled onto goes down under me.

"Fucking shit," she says as she hits the ground, my elbow jabbing into her abdomen as she absorbs my entire body weight. I don't have to see her face—I know the voice—but I can't help looking. With a yard full of people looking on, plus several yards full of photographers, I'm lying halfway on top of Santana, who is sprawled on the ground, holding me tightly, blinking as the blue sky rains fruit on top of us. Camera shutters whir and snap in the distance. And to think, I feared being in the peripheral background of a photo taken of her.

I scramble to roll off of her, and she releases me slowly enough that I'm pulling against her hold for a couple of seconds, until she realizes we're not actually falling anymore. My iced tea has splashed a swath across both of our white t-shirts, and pieces of pineapple, and various berries tumble from our clothes and hair as we move to sit upright. People who a moment ago were all frozen, are rushing towards us, asking if we're okay, helping us to our feet. Mortified, I stare down at my soggy, fruit laden outfit. My legs are wet, iced tea dripping from my shorts and snaking down the bare skin. I can't look directly at Santana.

"I'm so sorry," I say in her general direction before mumbling, "I need to go clean up," in answer to offers of assistance from half a dozen people. Grabbing a stack of napkins, I walk inside, fighting the urge to run.

The bathroom plumbing has been hooked up, thank God, though mirrors haven't been hung yet. After mopping the tea from my legs, I press a damp napkin into the shirt where the tea has stained it, though it's a hopeless gesture. Running my fingers over my head, I pluck out bits of fruit, struggling not to picture what might get into the gossip rags or, on the Internet tomorrow:

_Unhinged Fan Tackles Superstar __—__see page 2__._

_Clumsy Girl falls for Santana Lopez__—__Click Here for Photos!_

Oh no.

"You missed some pineapple." Santana stops me from turning, one hand on my shoulder, her fingers in my hair, plucking a thin slice from my ponytail. "It could be worse, you know."

"Oh?" I'm sure she's correct, but at the moment, I can't imagine how.

"Sure. Spaghetti and meatballs would be worse. Chocolate milk. Sangria. That stuff stains anything, trust me." She dislodges a blueberry from my shoulder and it lands in the sink, rolling, leaving a purple trail. Picturing myself covered in spaghetti, I turn and face him without even a hint of a smile.

"We don't usually serve pasta. Or sangria."

"I guess you're safe from tomato sauce and red wine stains then." Her expression is serious, but her eyes dance.

"Yes."

"Hey, make sure I don't have any stray fruit in my hair, will you?" She angles the top of her head towards me. "I ran my hands through it, but I think I missed some."

"I don't see anything… oh, wait. There are a few strawberry bits." I try to remove the squishy stuff without actually touching her head, which proves impossible. Raspberry seeds are tangled along a strand a few inches over, and I give up and comb my fingers across her scalp, checking for concealed fruit.

"Mmm," she hums, as though she likes my hands in her hair, which is softer than I would have imagined. The bathroom suddenly feels very small. I drop the berries and seeds next to the one she flicked into the sink.

"I don't see any more..." She lifts her head, her eyes still playful, and I have no idea what she's doing until she does it.

At first I think she's spied another piece of fruit in my hair, so I don't react right away when she lifts her hand. The wall is only a foot or so behind me, and it takes little effort for her to push me to it, one hand cradling the back of my head and the other skimming my hip as she leans down. Something in my brain sparks awake and I jerk my face to the side as her mouth grazes the outer edge of my jaw. My hands come up to her chest and shove her.

"Santana, no." She backs up immediately, hands up and out. Smirking, one corner of her mouth turns up and she shrugs.

"Sorry. Won't happen again. Just, you know, curious."

"About what?" My voice is somehow steady, when I'm anything but. She almost kissed me. _Sh__e almost kissed me_. She shrugs a second time, which makes me want to punch her. She's so whatever.

"I didn't mean anything. Seriously. Won't happen again." There's no responsibility to accept, because everything just happens around her, as though she's at the eye of a storm she has nothing to do with causing or sustaining. I shove past her, my heart hammering. She barely touched me, and she stopped the second I protested. She said it wouldn't happen again. Twice, in fact.

People glance up as I pass, ask if I'm okay, and I fix a fake smile on my face, tell them I'm fine, even while I feel like I might hyperventilate. Why? Because she's a rich celebrity? Hardly. Because she's beautiful? Because of her casual arrogance—that intangible thing ahe exudes that some women find so irresistible? No, and no. Okay. Then why?

Because everything I wanted to feel when Sam kissed me last Friday, I felt in the near-miss that just occurred.

* * *

**Beginning to feel like I'm writing for no one to read it lol, feedback would be appreciated. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Santana  
**

Shit. Well, that was stupid.

On the other hand, what the fuck? I haven't been shoved away that quickly in a while. If ever. I'm getting, like, Stockholm syndrome or something, and Brittany is my jailer. That's why I tried to kiss her, obviously. I need out of this situation as soon as possible. Maybe I should have let her hit the ground, but when I saw that woman knock her off the patio, I just reacted. It wasn't the most graceful fall or the most adept catch in the history of accidental dismounts. The consequences: my shoulder is bruised and one elbow is scraped raw, my abdominal muscles narrowly managed to withstand rupture, and I discovered—inadvertently, I swear—that Brittany Pierce is hiding some noteworthy curves under her collection of enormous t-shirts.

Once I'm in the car, I call Mike—again. "Santana?" He's surprised to hear from me within hours of the previous call.

"Yeah, just an FYI on some photos that are probably being uploaded as we speak—a girl at the house sorta fell off the patio, and I sorta caught her."

"Fell off the patio?"

"Someone ran into her. Knocked her right off."

"Jesus."

"No, just some middle-aged woman." He ignores my quip.

"So this girl you sorta caught—she's not underage, married, or a meth dealer…?" I laugh.

"Eighteen, single, and straight as the road to hell." _I think._

"Um-hmm. Anything else I should know?" He hangs the question out there as he always does, no leading statements, no fishing for details. One of the many things I love about Mike. I trust him more than pretty much anyone and he knows it. He knows, too, that I'll be up front with him, even if I seldom follow his good advice.

"Nothing anyone would be privy to. She's not interested in me." Outside the car window, East LA flies by.

"Oh?" I'm flattered by Mike's disbelief.

"Yeah, she's a genuine do-gooder."

"Ah, I heard we had one of those in LA." Mike is a funny guy. "I guess it would be too much to ask that you leave her as you found her." Not too long ago I was impatient to be finished with this volunteer shit—and Brittany. Telling myself that this too shall pass. Mike's mention to the end of my association with Brittany Pierce, or rather my reaction to his mention, tells me I wasn't fully connecting those two things. I'm surprised to find that I'm not ready for this to be over. Mike sighs.

"Oh well, the suggestion was worth a shot." I tell him what I always tell him—and mostly it's the truth, for what it's worth.

"Thanks for the advice, man. I'll consider it."

"Mm-hmm."

* * *

**Brittany  
**

I'm. Such. A. Chicken.

I woke up at 3 a.m. last night, dreaming about her. In the dream, I didn't turn my head away. Her mouth landed on mine rather than grazing my jaw. My hands pulled her closer rather than pushing her away. And instead of backing away with a mocking grin, she moved closer, pressing me to the wall in a kiss that went on and on until I woke with a start, breathless. Tubbs raised his head from the end of my bed as I sat up, his ears lifting in question and his head angling when I pounded the bed with one fist and whispered,

"Son. Of. A. Biscuit."

I touched my lips, half expecting them to be swollen because they were tingling, and then threw the covers off and stomped to the kitchen to make a cup of chamomile tea. Tubbs jumped down and followed out of either curiosity or solidarity. I called Holly early this morning and told her they needed me at VBS and I couldn't report for Habitat duty the rest of the week. It wasn't exactly a lie. It wasn't exactly the truth, either, so I find myself clinging to the uncomfortable gray zone in the center. She was great—all no problem and of course those kids miss you, and I felt ashamed until I thought about Santana and that almost-kiss. I need a break from this temptation, because that's all it is for me. Temptation. For her, it's nothing more than gaining the upper hand, and I'm not about to let her do it.

I'm supervising pool time and thinking about what we have left to do at the Brooke house when I catch myself daydreaming about her again, as though all thought patterns eventually lead to Santana. The earthy smell of her in that enclosed space. The contradiction of her shoving me to the wall with one firm hand while cradling the back of my head with the other. The deep almost black of her eyes right before she dipped her head closer. Right before I pushed her away.

With effort, I force my thoughts to the kids and their impending performance, Deb and the challenges of residency, my college checklist, Sam. Dad's waterproof watch on my wrist will beep when it's time to go inside. If I could get it to zap me when my thoughts wander to Santana, I'd be golden. Forcing her from my mind isn't working so well. I think I need an exorcism.

When I'm finished for the day, I scroll through my texts. A couple are from Kitty and Marley, friends from school I've only seen twice since graduation. The two of them have been BFFs since junior high. They allowed me within the circle of their friendship during the first month of tenth grade. I've never been as close to either of them as they are to each other, but that's okay. Neither of them have a sister like Deb.

_Marley: so when were you gonna tell us about SANTANA LOPEZ?_

_Kitty: Srsly, there are pics all over the internet of you two at that habitat place and you are full frontal ON TOP OF HER.  
_

I call Marley, knowing there's a ninety-nine percent chance she's with Kitty after their coordinated texts. At school they did everything together. They took the same classes, joined the same groups, dated boys who were friends—or brothers. In a

few weeks, they're starting at UCLA. Rooming together, of course.

"Britt!" Kitty answers Marley's phone. "Are you friends with Santana Lopez? Are you more than friends? Ohmigod, the parties we could get into… you will take me and Marley, right?"

"We aren't actually friends, and we're certainly not more than friends."

"But that picture! You're stretched across her like she's wearing you!" Ugh, I can't believe she just said that. Can the photos be that bad? The phone jostles and Marley's voice takes over.

"Britt I know you don't really trust anyone and Santana Lopez is the last person on the planet to trust but honestly this is not a trust or not trust sort of moment this is a once in a lifetime sort of moment!" I don't trust anyone? What? I sigh, knowing they would strangle me with their bare, perfectly manicured hands if they knew what happened in private a few minutes after I landed on top of Santana yesterday.

"You guys know how the press manipulates things to look a certain way…"

"Britt need I repeat myself you were on top of her! Unless you are suggesting superb photoshopping that was not press manipulation." Wow. This is not good.

"I fell. She caught me. That's all that happened." She sighs, as though I've just confirmed a passionate affair.

"That's what the stories are saying—that you tripped off the edge of the patio—

freaking brilliant by the way! And then she caught you. So romantic…" My head still feels bruised, my ankle is a little swollen, and I'm pretty sure I got felt up when we were going down, even if Santana wasn't aware of doing it… not exactly my idea of romantic.

"Britt." Kitty has taken the phone back. "You honestly aren't friends with her?"

"No, I'm really not."

"Well, crap." I hear Marley saying something in the background, and then Kitty's voice returns. "Could you make friends with her?" I can't help laughing. Marley and I grew up with Hollywood down the street, and Kitty moved here when she was a kid. We should all be a little less easily star-struck.

"I'm not even going to be there again until next week, and I leave for Málaga the week after that. Besides, she's a bigheaded celebrity. She's not interested in ordinary girls."

"Hmph." Her tone is sullen. "I guess we'll just have to look forward to regular college romances, then." This is particularly funny, considering the fact that I've listened to the two of them go on and on about college guys for the past three years solid.

* * *

**Santana  
**

The paparazzi swarm has ballooned. Mike is fielding hourly calls from journalists proposing in-depth, exclusive, one-on-one reporting of my rehabilitation. We both know they're far more interested in digging up juicy info about my possible hookup with a member of the peasantry. I wasn't shocked when Brittany didn't show up yesterday, between our little interface in the bathroom and the fact that my fansites were going crazy over photos of the two of us looking like we're making out in the back yard. I'm accustomed to rumors and misinterpreted photos. You have to laugh that shit off or you could end up in handcuffs after decking some asshole photographer or stalker weirdo… or turn into a recluse, hiding from public scrutiny.

Still, I was sure Brittany would bounce in today, sporting a t-shirt proclaiming her loathing of some vice I've reveled in at one time or another, if not on a regular basis. But Holly just told me she won't be back until next week.

"Was she that shaken up by all the photos online…?" I gesture vaguely to the surrounding yards full of photographers after grabbing a bottle of water from the cooler. What I don't say: Or was it the attempted kiss that freaked her the fuck out?

"Oh, I don't think so." Holly frowns, uncertain. "She's working with her church's VBS program, and they needed her this week."

"VBS?" Holly looks at me like I'm an alien because I don't recognize the acronym. "Vacation Bible School?" she prompts. No help. Those three words don't go together in any way in my experience.

"So what's she doing there that's so important?" I twist the cap off the bottle and drink as we move towards the line for lunch.

"Actually, she choreographed the dance portion of the parent night program with the music director, and she's in charge of the final performance." Holly's obviously proud of this accomplishment. Directing a religious musical program for six-year-olds? Kill me first.

"Wow. That's awesome." (Seriously. Kill me first.)

"Hi, Santana." Ah, Sophia. Just the distraction I need.

"Sitting with me today?" I say, smiling down at her. She must have forgiven me for that comment about wanting nothing to do with her. Sophia tosses a look of defiance at Holly before smiling and poking me in the chest.

"Duh, that's why I came over here." Holly purses her lips, wracking her brain to come up with a reason why the two of us can't fraternize at lunch. When she comes up blank, I pretend not to notice.

* * *

**Brittany  
**

Three days with no Santana, and I am so not conquering that temptation. I've alternated between wondering if she caused any trouble in my absence and wondering if she was disappointed that I wasn't there—if she noticed at all.

Tonight, in the privacy of my room, and in opposition to any good judgment I've ever thought I had, I google Santana Lopez. First up: the silly photos of the two of us, with me sprawled atop her like a linebacker sacking a quarterback. There's rampant speculation online about who I am, and whether or not I'm something more than just an uncoordinated girl from his volunteer site (I grit my teeth—volunteer, my eye).

Her fans are also debating what we're doing in the photo, but we had more than enough eyewitnesses, so really, the worst anyone could say is that I stupidly fell on

her. Or, as Kitty and Marley think, brilliantly fell on him. The majority view is that I'm a plain, unattractive nobody—stated more harshly in most cases. I shrug it off because on one hand I am a plain, unattractive nobody, and on the other hand, none of these people know me personally. They all base their verdicts on the same thing: what I look like in relation to her.

I ignore further editorials and fan comments and go straight for the images link, because image is what Santana Lopez is all about. Her beautiful face. Her lean, tones body. The blatant sex appeal that wells up from that inner confidence and projects itself to the camera. I click on a cache of photos from a year-old GQ spread. Her graces the cover shot and several outtakes in a dark pinstripe suit which was, I'm sure, precisely tailored for her and insanely expensive. She wears nothing but her underwear in several shots, I click the arrow and the next photo appears—a mesmerizing close-up.

My stomach drops and I exhale a dazed, "Oh." Wearing a black tank, she grasps a tree branch angled just overhead. In the other shots, her expression is expertly arrogant—identical to her standard, now familiar veneer. But this one is the opposite. Open. Affectionate. Sensitive. I snap my laptop closed.

Googling her was a very bad idea.

* * *

**Santana  
**

I'm supposed to start filming in less than two months. Since I locked up the lead role by convincing the production team and the director that I could do the stunts, I can't just be in decent shape. I have to be in prime form. My personal trainer commences the torture sessions tomorrow morning, so tonight ends early. Which sucks because I'm out with my friend Kurt, a co-star from Six Degrees Of Separation, and he's going back home to Chicago tomorrow. We meet for dinner and end up at the bar in his hotel after.

"Seen anyone since May?" he asks once the waitress, who's trying her damnedest to act like she doesn't know who the two of us are, leaves our drinks.

"Partied with Jake once, and ran into Elaine at an awards show last month. She's looking pretty hot." Kurt pauses, his dirty martini halfway to his lips.

"San, Elaine's like sixteen."

"God, what the fuck is it with everyone and the underage girl alert? I'm aware, okay?" I sigh, running a hand through my hair and reining in my temper. In light of the whole Sophia-Brittany issue, I may be overreacting a bit.

"Relax—I'm not accusing you of anything." Kurt leans up, elbows on the table. "I know you're smarter than that." He smirks. "As much of an ass as you are in other matters." I laugh and shake my head.

"Rachel, right?"

"I was referring to the fact that you wrecked your car and almost killed yourself… but yeah, you screwed up your love life, too." We're silent for a minute, and I know he's waiting for me to ask what he knows I'm going to ask.

"Have you seen her?" He leans back, gives me a once-over like he's gauging how much I can take.

"We got together a couple of weeks ago in New York. She's busy with some play thing for school. She and Puck, uh, didn't want to be apart all summer." I imagine the two of them together, waiting to feel wounded, but it's not really there.

"So that whole thing is working out, I guess."

"So far, yeah." Kurt takes a sip of the martini, checking my reaction through the fringe of a hair hanging perpetually over his right eye.

"I met up with both of them, actually. They seem happy—like, they fit, you know? I can shut up now." I shrug and shake my head.

"No. I'm glad she's happy." Surprisingly, I realize I mean it. "So what about you, lover boy? Getting any from a regular source? Kurt leans up again, his face earnest.

"I met someone a month ago, and I'm so in love it's not even funny. I'm like head over heels, first time ever. It's sick."

"So who is he?" I lean up. "Are you about to out somebody? Cause if so, you know you can trust me."

"No, he's an architect. So damned smart it blows my mind. Creative, gorgeous, funny, sexy…" He's lost in his own thoughts for a couple of seconds.

"Okay, okay, stop or I'm gonna have to consider going straight," I say, and he laughs.

"I've never felt like this before. I want to hold his hand when we're walking, or brush the hair out of his eyes when he's got coffee in one hand and the dog's leash in the other." His mouth quirks up on one side again as he stares into his drink. "It's different when you're in love."

I think of all of the things I take for granted. I could grab a stranger, kiss her in public, and the only thing the majority of people will think is that it's hot. Kurt's in love, but they can't hold hands in most public places without worrying what someone might do or say.

"Sucks to be you" I say, and he makes like he's gonna punch me in the arm. I flinch and spill part of my drink on the table.

"So what about you? Anybody new?" I shake my head.

"You don't even want to know."

"Oh?" Both eyebrows angle up as he leans closer. "Oh, yes I do. I so do. Lay it on me. Is it that girl from the Habitat place?" Fucking paparazzi.

"That was just a clumsy girl falling off of a patio."

Out of nowhere I remember the fruit falling from the sky, so surreal. The feel of her in my arms as I caught her. Her face flaming as she struggled to move off of me. I almost made a smartass comment about her lack of grace, but she was already so humiliated that I couldn't do it. I

followed her inside instead. I don't know what I expected. I sure didn't expect to try to kiss her—that was completely spontaneous. When she ran her fingers through my hair to search for stray bits of fruit, I had a sharp, three-second vision of her lying under me in my bed, her hands thrusting into my hair as I lean down to kiss her...

"Earth to Santana." Kurt's voice is pure cynicism. I blink and look up and he shakes his head slowly. "Oh, yeah. There's nothing going on there. Not at all." Busted.

"Yeah, well, she's not the slightest bit into me. I tried to kiss her and she objected in a resounding no-means-no sort of way. And then disappeared for the rest of the week." Kurt smiles and holds his drink aloft towards me.

"Here's to challenges, Ms. Lopez." My friend may have a point. Maybe Brittany's just playing hard-to-get better than any girl I've ever met, and I've just gotten lazy.

Brittany, one. Santana, zero.

But not for long.

* * *

**Brittany  
**

Sam and I were planning to hang out tonight, but he'd forgotten his promise to watch his brother while his parents take his sister to San Diego for a visit with their Aunt. I assured him several times that I understood completely and was fine with the late

cancellation. Mom and Dad are out with friends.

"Well, Tubbs, it's just you and me tonight," I tell him, scratching gently behind his ears, "Let's make sandwiches." I pull ingredients out of the fridge and pantry, and roll slices of deli turkey for him. His tail tick-tocks gently side to side as I set the plate in front of him.

Tubbs lies next to me on the sofa while I eat and scroll through network TV options. Nothing looks interesting, so I browse the pay-per-view selections. I'm in the mood for something cute. No slashers, no thrillers, no buddy flicks. No historical drama or redemption-through-pain-and-or-suffering films. Especially nothing that says profoundly moving or grab a tissue! in the description.

"Here we go, Lord T: 'Marcus begins his senior year at a new school with girls swooning for him, and jocks as friends. Things get complicated

when he falls for quiet, bookish Rosa, who becomes a social pariah after she rats out the football players' cheating ring.'" Tubbs turns on his side and lays his head on my leg. "I think we have a winner." I click buy, press the play button and grab a handful of popcorn, thinking that I should be sad that Sam had to bail on me. That I didn't have time to make plans with anyone else. That I'm spending my Saturday night alone. But I'm fine. I'm more than fine.

The movie is everything I hoped for. Until about ten minutes in… when one of the random cheerleaders turns out to be Santana. I gasp, and Tubbs raises his head sharply and looks at me, and then swivels around, looking for the unknown menace.

I should have looked up her filmography on IMDb last night. All I really know of her are her last two, more major roles. This movie is almost three years old. Her role is minor, and she spends most of her onscreen time in the background, but once I recognize her, I'm either watching her or waiting for her to show up again.

The movie is an hour and fifty-seven minutes long, but it takes me nearly twice that to get all the way through it because I'm rewinding and replaying every moment she's onscreen. In one party scene, several couples are in various states of making out. I spot Santana on the left side of the screen, sitting in a chair, kissing

one of the jock characters, who's she's straddling. Their mouths are fused, but I watch her hands—gripping his arms, sliding down the guys back, holding him like she held me when I fell on her. I rewind the scene and watch it a third time.

"Oh, god" I whisper, and Tubbs looks at me and sighs.

* * *

**Santana  
**  
Sue is a beast.

I don't think my trainer expected me to still be in decent shape, though I told er I'd been working construction for Habitat. Not a fan of working out through natural means, she employs weights, pulleys, rubber bands and medicine balls to shape her clients. As far as Sue is concerned, exercise is not painting, digging fence posts or swinging a sledgehammer to break up a 200 pound boulder. Exercise is done indoors, while a women who could probably break you in two over her rock-hard quadriceps provides motivation like, "What do you want to be when you grow up? A girl?" I think I pissed her off, flaunting my organically maintained muscle tone. I should have feigned weakness. Once she saw that I was primed for what she had planned, she stepped up the pain factor by several notches in what I can only assume was an attempt to kill me, so she could resuscitate me and kill me again.

I went out with Finn last night—not the best idea after a session with Sue—and crashed on his sofa around two a.m. I hear him snoring from the bedroom, the sound on exhale a cross between the horn on a semi and a walrus's mating call. I have no idea what time it is, but judging by the light, it's not quite noon. Every muscle in my body is aching, my head is throbbing, and I have no one to blame but myself. And possibly Finn, because I can. I shuffle into his kitchen to make coffee… but there isn't any. Awesome. There's also nothing in the fridge but beer, a mostly empty tub of margarine, and questionable takeout boxes of sweet and sour chicken and beef with cashews. No milk. No juice. The pantry boasts a box of stale cereal and an equally stale bag of corn chips. The kitchen in this place is state-of-the-art, and this is all the food it has to offer? Sad.

Starving, I have no choice but to shower and go out in search of food. Finn and I are close enough, ten to one there's something of mine in his closet that I can just reclaim. There's a bagel place a few doors down from Finn's building. I want bagels and cream cheese, but Sue is determined to pump up the muscle I've got and reduce me to near-zero percent body fat. A compromise is in order—bagels and lox. Lox has protein, right? Going out without a bodyguard or a car is always tricky. Fans in LA or NYC are much less likely to mob celebrities, but it's far from unheard of, and the paparazzi are always on the lookout. I grab my sunglasses and a hat (Lakers—pretty sure it's mine). Pulling the brim low, I take Finn's apartment key off the counter and head out.

* * *

**Brittany  
**  
I'm assisting with the coffee and donut distribution after Sunday school, waiting for the caffeine to kick in from the cup of coffee I gulped while setting up. The coffee isn't very good—but Mrs. P gets it in bulk from a discount warehouse, along with powdered creamer, one-ply napkins and flimsy paper plates. High expectations would be unrealistic.

"No chocolate with chocolate sprinkles?" Mr. Goody, the most ancient parishioner in the church, frowns at me over the bar where I stand, completely zoned out. His gaze swings over the several open boxes of various donuts.

"Um, no—what's out is what we've got. There are a couple of chocolate with nuts—"

"Nuts! Goodness, no!" He grabs a plain glazed, and glares at me like I suggested a pastry covered in slime.

"Hmph." Mrs. P glares at his retreating back. "Who doesn't like nuts?"

"Maybe he's allergic," I offer.

"Allergic to manners." She straightens the stack of tissue-thin napkins as I check my cell. My message light is blinking.

_Kitty: Me n marley r goin to see playin for keeps. Wanna join? Come on, u know u wanna.  
_  
Playing For Keeps, Santana's latest blockbuster hit. My pulse stutters, stop-start-stop-start. After a five day hiatus from Santana, my foolish little infatuation is worse. How is this possible? I should definitely say no. The last thing I need to see is a movie in which Santana stars.

_Britt: sure, come get me, i'll be home by 1  
_  
I sometimes think Dad can read my mind. In first grade, I was a huge Barbie fan. One day Annabelle Hayes came to school with a tiny package of Barbie colored pencils. During recess, I swiped it from her desk. That Sunday, Dad preached on two thou-shalt-nots: coveting and stealing. When I started bawling in the pew, Mom ushered me to the bathroom, thinking I was sick. Turned out I was a six-year-old with an easily assessed guilt complex.

Dad's sermon this morning—temptation. When his eyes meet mine, I imagine he knows every errant thought in my head concerning Santana. There's no way Dad could know, but there he stands, detailing how to identify temptation and how to resist it. Meaning to pay strict attention and take notes, I click my pen and open the small notebook I keep in my bag. And then I can't stop thinking about Santana's hands in my hair and splayed at my waist, propelling me to the wall, her lips brushing over my cheek as I turned my face away.

There is no logical reason for my inability to stop thinking about that almost-kiss. No reason at all. Especially in the middle of church. The page in my notebook is still blank at the end of the sermon.

* * *

**I'm finding it easy to write right now so hopefully my inspiration stays, updates shouldn't be any further apart than a day or so as I've been sick from school. Until then I can just lay in bed and write. Review if you feel like it!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Santana**

Brittany seemed surprised but appreciative the day I brought her a soy latte (after having heard her tell someone on the phone the previous afternoon

that she was craving one), so I add it to my morning coffee run. Just to throw her off balance, I bring Sophia the same thing. When I get there, the two of them are in Sophia's future bedroom, which we've painted a stomach-turning shade of pink. Ceiling fan parts are spread in an organized manner on the floor—nuts, bolts and fan blades in neat piles. Brittany reads over the instructions while Sophia stands

with her arms crossed, looking annoyed—until she sees me.

"Santana!" she beams.

For a split second, I wish Brittany was that enthusiastic about my presence… but no, her unwavering pretense of indifference is a major aspect of the challenge of her. She doesn't look up, but she's so aware of me—hands gripping the instruction packet tightly enough to crumple the edges, ears almost matching the walls.

Taking my caramel macchiato from the tray, I choke back a laugh at Brittany's apprehensive expression and focus on Sophia, who makes a face when I mention the soy.

"Is there syrup in it?" she asks hopefully.

"In the latte? Uh, no…"

"I'm sure Holly has some sugar packets," Brittany interjects. Her eyes flick to mine and skitter away. Sophia gives me an enthusiastic hug (Brittany purses her lips but makes no comment) and goes in search of sugar.

"C'mon, Dori—the first hit is always free."

She reluctantly accepts the cup I hand her and says, "Thanks," like it takes a herculean effort to speak the word to me. She studies the instructions and sips the latte while I regard her silently. She's sporting the faded red D.A.R.E. shirt again, but today her hair band matches her shirt, and she's wearing thin silver hoop earrings. And is that lip gloss on her mouth? Interesting and atypical Brittany behavior. On the day I started work here, I stupidly assumed that getting into Brittany's pants would be effortless, and in the same thought I concluded that I couldn't be bothered to hook up with her. Had she sensed that vain mental verdict and decided to make me pay for it?

"This isn't the first… hit… for me, you know." She's obviously hesitant to use addict jargon, even in jest.

"Hmm. I guess you'll owe me, then." She doesn't respond, just sets her cup on a windowsill and takes one last glance at the instructions. Armed with a screwdriver, she picks up the bulky mechanical component and climbs the ladder directly beneath the hole cut into the center of the ceiling. I gather from watching her that she has to get the wiring hooked up before she can attach the motor to the electrical box in the ceiling. She balances the bulky thing in her right hand while she twists the wires together with her left, pulling safety caps out of her pocket and affixing them to the connected wires. Halfway through, she fumbles the motor, almost dropping it and exclaiming,

"Popsicles!"

I climb up behind her and take the weight of the motor in my hand, but there is no fucking way I can keep from laughing. What does popsicles even correspond to? I've heard her say fudge—a way more obvious substitute. I'm beginning to think she just tosses out whatever food item she thinks of first. Without a word, she hooks up the wiring. If I wasn't aware of her proximity before, I am now. The light press of her body against mine and the unanticipated sweet scent of her make me abruptly, fully conscious of it. Standing on the rung below her places my mouth level with her ear.

"You smell good. What are you wearing?" Her breathing goes shallow, from either threat or desire.

"Deodorant." I laugh softly, inhaling carefully.

"Mmm, no, something more than that, I think."

"I… I don't know. Lotion? Some store brand, I think." She doesn't know? My mother and every girl I've ever dated, Rachel included, coordinated lotions, powders, and colognes. If asked, any of them could have said what scent they were wearing without thinking.

"No… it's more like… cake, or something else… edible." I'm staring at the fine hairs on the nape of her neck, her small left earlobe, the silver hoop threaded through it, her dark lashes in profile. She's shut her eyes, as though she's lightheaded.

"Um… okay…" She opens her eyes, turns slightly towards me. "Santana, I… I want to get down now."

I hop from the rung to the floor, reach up and swing her lightly to the ground, my hands lingering at her waist. She grips my upper arms, not letting go once her feet are on the ground. We look as though we were dancing and someone hit the pause button. Common sense tells me not to try to kiss her again. She's not ready yet. So we stand there, staring at each other, silent and unmoving. She's conceding ground already; it's in her eyes. I suppress a smile at the conflict I sense in her, because she's scrutinizing every nuance of emotion on my face, looking for anything that might betray my intentions.

"Hey." Sophia's voice startles both of us—perfect timing.

I drop my hands as she jumps away. Turning to snatch my cup from where I set it on the stack of fan blades, I say, "Later," giving Brittany a calculating wink and bumping fists with a confused Sophia on the way out the door.

* * *

**Brittany  
**

If I can just get through one more week, I'll never have to see her again. The fan motor was heavy and unwieldy, and I should have waited for Sophia's help to hook it up. But I could feel her eyes on me from the moment she walked into the room, and I couldn't pretend to look at those instructions another minute.

Then my heart was slamming from nearly dropping the stupid motor, and in the next moment she was behind me, laughing at me for my choice of swearword-that-isn't while taking the motor and holding it aloft like it weighed nothing. I would have chastised her for breaking the oneperson-on-the-ladder rule, but I couldn't speak.

Her chest pressed against my back while her arm reached around, her bicep hard against my ribcage, just grazing my breast. I stretched up, my arms burning, and worked to get the wiring hooked up as quickly as possible. Once the part was snug against the ceiling, I thought she'd step back down. Instead, she remained where she was, our bodies connected, however slightly, in several key spots. Then she told me I smelled good.

Trapped on that ladder, all I could do was close my eyes and concentrate. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Until er hands were at my waist, lifting me down like I weigh nothing. I've never been so pleased to see Sophia. Once Santana disappears, I tell her to take the fan boxes to her brothers' and parents' rooms and get them unpacked so we can install them before lunch. That should give me enough time to attach the fan blades… and recover from what she just did to me.

* * *

**Santana  
**

Jake, one of the new volunteers, is a member of a frat group that'll be here for the week—Pi Kappa something. I think he's decided we're BFFs for the duration. We're the same age, but for the most part, I feel like I'm talking to a kid. During lunch break, I entertain him with celebrity anecdotes—the websites, the starlets, the parties, the fan mail—while he's rubbernecking at all the photographers hovering in neighboring yards.

"So there might be pictures of me on celebrity gossip sites? Like, tomorrow?" I can't help laughing—celebrities go miles way out of their way to dodge being harassed by the paparazzi, but Jake is ecstatic over the prospect.

"They'll probably be up by this afternoon, if not in half an hour," I tell him. He pulls his phone from his pocket, starts typing a text.

"Seriously? Awesome." Ten to one he's texting a friend to check websites to see if

he's made it into any shots yet. Ultimate photobombing. "So, like, what do you do with all those pictures girls send you? Do you ever, you know, call up one of the hot ones and hook up?" I shake my head.

"No way. The more, er, stimulating photos don't make it to me—my mail and email is prescreened. I get the fully-clothed shots. And the you're a godess and I think you should have won an Oscar mail, not the You suck and I wish you'd curl up and die shit. My manager shreds or deletes anything inappropriate." We each take a paper plate and head for the food.

"Even hot naked girls? Why?" Jake is aghast.

"Because photos of naked fifteen-year-olds are not something you want to keep, even if they say they're eighteen."

"Yeah, I guess not." He grimaces, but doesn't look convinced.

"Hi, Sophia." Speak of the underage devil.

"Hey, Sophia. This is Jake." Jake's eyes widen slightly, taking her in. She smiles and chirps,

"Hi." While he checks her out, she turns back to me. "So, Dori's boyfriend

showed up again. God, he's so boring." Boyfriend?

"What?" She blinks innocently. "Her boyfriend, Sam—he was here like a week or so ago? I'm going to kill myself if I have to work with the two of them all freaking afternoon." She glances towards the back door. "God, there they are."

I'm staring when Brittany locks eyes with me. Sam is the guy Sam sat next to at lunch during the first week. The one with the poor conversation skills and gigantic mouth. She breaks eye contact with me and turns to direct him to the line, her hand on his arm as he drones on about something. This guy is her boyfriend? You've got to be shitting me. He looks like he just stepped out of a nerd sitcom, where he plays the character who constantly manages to destroy his chances to hook up with anyone. And then I wonder if nerds are what floats Brittany's boat, because I've heard that some girls are like that.

Jake invites another frat guy to join us. We all sit on the edge of the patio to eat, and Sophia is flushed and talkative, seemingly relishing the maleto-female ratio. Jake and his friend Ryder are more than happy to accommodate her, and while I appear to do the same, I'm watching Brittany and Sam. Her smiles seem real and her body language is relaxed; when their knees brush or he leans forward to say something, she doesn't pull back or shy away. He's not hot, but not repulsive. But there's no observable chemistry between them, not even guarded touches… and she's sneaking looks in my direction every few minutes while I appear to be engrossed in whatever Sophia is babbling about.

Lunch is almost over when Brittany glances over once more, and this time I stare back. Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and while shereturns my gaze, I count five long seconds. As a slow smile steals across my face, she snaps her attention back to her boyfriend—if that's what he is.

* * *

**Brittany**

Minutes after Santana left the room this morning, Sam showed up, determined to make up for canceling our plans Saturday and spoiling my night. When I assured him again that he did no such thing, he ducked his head shyly and admitted that he just wanted an excuse to see me, and if a little manual labor was all it took, he was up for it. He's so sincere and sweet that I wish for the hundredth time that I felt more for him than an intense admiration of his character and a mild attraction to his person.

Sophia was her usual crabby self all morning, but with Sam helping out I found her tormented sighs humorous. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud during the first interaction between the two of them. While I attached outlet covers, Sam was on the ladder, connecting the heating and A/C vent.

"Hey, Sophie—can you hand me that set of driver bits please?"

"The. Name. Is. Sophia." She glared at him, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Sam blinked at her vehement tone, then smiled.

"Oh, sorry. Sophia, please hand me that set of driver bits?" She spun around, grabbing the package from the floor and slapping it into his open hand.

"_God_," she said under her breath.

"Thanks, Sophia." He smiled again, which seemed to infuriate her further. Sam's presence helps keep me focused on work, but doesn't inhibit the scenes from Santana's movie that have been on a constant loop in my head since yesterday afternoon. We ended up watching Six Degrees Of Seperation, since they had seen Playing For Keeps too many times to count already. I didn't know anything about Six Degrees Of Seperation before we went, while Marley and Kitty had parts of it memorized. The premise was a bit silly—a present day adaptation of Pride and Prejudice, set in a high school. Her natural self-assurance was easy to see in the heated scenes between Santana and her costar, Noah Puckerman. And when she kissed him, I swear I felt it. Ugh.

When we went outside for lunch, my attention was drawn to her repeatedly, sitting with Sophia and two of our fraternity volunteers from UCLA. Sam was talking about a mission trip he did earlier this summer to Honduras. "…because fifty percent of the population is under the poverty line—can you imagine?"

"Uh, wow, that's awful." My eyes drifted to the other side of the patio. The first half dozen times I looked, Santana didn't notice. That last time, though, her dark brown eyes locked with mine. My pulse galloped. And then her mouth kicked up on one side and I had no choice but to rip my gaze from hers. I stared into Sam's eyes, thankful for his comforting voice, his gentle smile. And I fought the magnetic pull of the women sitting across the yard who is everything I do not need and should not want.

I'm up late, compiling a list of stuff to pack for my mission trip when Deb calls.

As soon as I say hello, she says, "Britt, he kissed me," sounding like the giddy girl she never was, rather than the capable, independent woman who earned the title of doctor two months ago.

"Who—old doc Ben?" I can't help teasing her.

"He's thirty-one!"

"Hmm, thirty-one is reasonable, I suppose." I know she can hear the smile in my voice. "So when did this romantic encounter occur? I thought you were working twenty-four seven."

"He picked me up last night for my dinner break, around ten-thirty. We only had about twenty minutes, so he brought burgers and we parked at the back of the hospital lot and talked."

"Talked, eh?" I leave the list on my desk and lie back on my bed. My ceiling fish are all stationary, waiting for the A/C to cycle on.

"He told me he wants to make sure I know how he feels about me, since we can't show it in front of anyone in the hospital. Any gossip could get ugly, even though he's not directly supervising me."

"And how does doctor Ben feel about you?" My logical, analytical sister giggles, and I cover my mouth and wait for her answer. It's been so long since she's been this interested in anyone.

"He likes me. A lot, he said."

"What if someone finds out? Or if it gets serious? I mean you can't pretend like you don't know each other for your whole residency…"

"I asked him about someone finding out. He said it's happened before. As long as there's no supervisory relationship, the worst that could happen is we'd get a stern talking to." She doesn't answer the second question.

"My big sister, skulking around kissing boys in parking lots. I'm shocked! Details, please."

"I had to get back inside, so I said I could just walk back up, and he said no way, he didn't want to waste his last two minutes with me. And then he reached over and touched the side of my face, and we moved towards each other like magnets, and, well…"

"Don't leave me hanging! How was it? Hasn't it been like ten years since you've kissed a boy?"

"Ha. Ha. Very funny. I guess it has been a while, but kissing Ben was just… perfect. She sighs, and I know she's reliving the whole thing. "I have to get back on the floor. I just had to tell you."

"I love that you did. And I'll say a prayer that you don't get caught."

We laugh and say goodnight, and I lie there, smiling, for another few minutes. Until my thoughts cycle back to Santana, and the blocked kiss. Maybe I should have let her do it, before pushing her away.

But if I'd have let her kiss me, I might not have been able to push her away at all.

* * *

**Santana  
**

Just before I left yesterday, Shannon told me that I've been assigned to Brittany for the next couple of days to help finish out the closets and pantry.

"I assume that means Sophia is off Tuesday and Wednesday?" Her answer was her best squinty stare, while Ken, sauntering up behind us to wash his hands, wasn't as restrained.

"Son, you should take some lessons in when to keep your thoughts to yourself. See, women are always saying that they want honesty and communication, but that's just

because they don't know all the jackass stuff we think about on a regular basis. A more intelligent fella, like myself, knows to keep the mystery alive by knowing when to shut up."

"Humph," Shannon said, smirking.

Brittany is removing six-foot-long boards from the supply storage unit when I arrive with her latte. Though less surprised than she was yesterday, she's still guarded. I drag the tips of my fingers over hers as I hand it to her. She glances at me as I feign interest in the trellis Ken is installing on the opposite side of the yard.

"So…these boards need to be painted before we put in the shelving, right?" When I look at her, she sets her cup on a stack of jagged shale stones and turns back to unloading the boards.

"Um, yeah." This morning, she's wearing a white t-shirt that would fit a linebacker, the back of which is emblazoned with what I assume is the name of her church and the VBS theme: In His Hands. On the front is a child's drawing of the globe covered in blue and green splotches. On the illogically green Arctic Circle are stick-figure kids of every color (including purple. I hand her my coffee.

"Hold this, and let me do that." I grab a stack of boards. "Where are we going with these?"

"First, we have to trim them down to size. I already did the measurements." She pulls a slip of paper from her back pocket, grabs her latte and leads me to the circular saw. As I carry the remainder of the boards over, she measures and marks them, flips the switch on the saw and begins cutting. The process looks simple enough, and after a few minutes, I'm not content to stand and watch, so I ask her to show me how to do it.

We cut the first two boards together. The sensation of her palms on the back of my hands, guiding them firmly, is like a pulsing current. I feel almost high, standing close enough to inhale her subtle, familiar scent, coupled with running boards through a whirring saw that could lop off my hand in a split second of inattention. The adrenaline junkie in me is fired up. While I cut the last few boards alone, my ears adjusting to the shrill whine as the blade chews through the wood, she sands the rough edges on the finished products. A portion of the ground and the fence has been tarped where we're doing the painting. She takes several of the smaller

boards and I follow with the larger ones.

"Lean them there; we're spray-painting them."

"Sounds fun." She glances at me, unsure if I'm being sarcastic. I turn back to get the rest, letting her guess. Keeping the mystery alive, as Ken would say. Brittany takes up the paint sprayer and quickly coats the first board with even strokes, leaving a smooth white surface. She hands me the sprayer.

"Start towards the top and go slowly, side to side." I aim it at the board and press the trigger just as she's saying, "Back up first!"

I basically blast it with paint all in one spot, so it looks like shit—and bonus, since I'm holding it too near the flat surface—Brittany and I end up with a rebound scatter of paint everywhere except where the goggles and particle masks cover our eyes and mouths. She blinks at me behind paint-misted goggles. There's paint in her hair, on her shirt, and misted over every inch of visible skin.

"Oops." My voice is muffled by the mask. I'm expecting anger or at least irritation, but she looks at my face and bursts out laughing and then so do I and soon we've caught the attention of everyone, including the photogs in the surrounding yards.

Shaking her head, she pulls her particle mask down and it hangs around her neck.

"You have to learn everything the hard way, don't you?" I shrug.

"I prefer to call it learning by experience." She laughs again and rolls her eyes,

"Ooooh, well in that case, far be it from me to interrupt your learning processes. Next time, please warn me to wear head-to-toe plastic sheeting while you're learning." She uses air quotes around learning.

"Yes, boss." I take a giant step back and so does she as I raise the sprayer. And then she takes another, pulling on her mask while I mumble, "Funny girl," through mine.

When I'm done, we stand surveying the boards, sipping our coffee drinks, masks around our necks, goggles pushed to our foreheads. She looks at me and smirks at my hair, which is sticking straight up behind the goggles. I push them back so they sit more like sunglasses on top of my head and point at her shirt.

"So what's the story with this VBS gig? Holly said you were in charge of some musical program, and that's why you disappeared last week." She watches me over the lid of her cup.

"It's just a few songs for the kindergarten class. For Parents' Night."

"You're choreographing them?" At her nod, I say, "I know nothing about kids that age, except that I was one. Or so I hear." She smiles, and I become aware of the freckles that were protected from paint mist by her mask and goggles. Scattered across the bridge of her nose, they're actually kind of cute. "You go to this church regularly? I've never really been; my parents aren't big on religion." Her smile weakens and her gaze skitters away and back.

"Yeah, I do." She swallows another sip. "My dad's the pastor." Whoa. I didn't expect that.

"Ah. So how much of that VBS job is you volunteering and how much is you being volunteered?" She doesn't hesitate.

"Oh, I love teaching the kids to dance. It's the most rewarding thing I do." Her eyes slide away again.

"I thought attempting to rehabilitate me was your favorite thing." I hadn't expected to make her blush, but her ears color under the paint.

* * *

**Brittany  
**

I can't respond to that comment, of course—a comment made more awkward by our previous argument about whether or not she needed or wanted rehabilitating, and whether or not I'd consider her worthy of the task. She's either forgiven me for those heated words, or she's forgotten them. I think she seldom forgets anything.

We finish painting the first coat on the boards, and at lunch Santana's frat boy groupies join us. There are four of them clustered around him today. I consider sitting with Holly, Shannon and Ken, but they're huddled together discussing grandchildren and real estate taxes for some reason, I just want to feel eighteen today.

"So what's it like, being you at some party? I bet you score all the chicks," a guy named Jake is asking Reid, who makes room for me on the edge of the patio.

"I can't complain," she answers, her eyes hitting mine for a split second. Jake leans closer.

"Do any of them ever put up any fight? Turn you down?" Santana laughs.

"Yeah, sure."

"But not like, often," another guy, Ryder, says. Santana shrugs.

"I guess not."

I'm rethinking my desire to be an eighteen-year-old girl and my decision to sit with this particular group when the guy on my opposite side offers his hand, "Hi, I'm Artie." I shake his hand.

"Brittany."

He leans forward, speaking in a low voice. "Ignore them—they're a bunch of morons with no manners." I take a bite of my sandwich rather than reply, curious about whatever inappropriate thing Ryder is asking Santana. (I swear I just heard the word

boobs.) Artie clears his throat, blocking out whatever Ryder is saying. "So are you a celebrity, too?"

"Uh, no."

"Oh, okay. I just noticed you seem… acquainted…" he inclines his head towards Santana.

"Oh. No." I wave a dismissive hand. "We've just been working together since she's been here. So, what are you studying? UCLA, right?"

"Yeah. Applied mathematics." He removes his glasses and rubs a smear from a lens with his shirttail. "What about you?"

"I'll be starting at Berkeley in the fall. Social work." His eyebrows rise.

"Berkeley? Cool." He chuckles a little. "Social work, eh?" I bristle, having endured appalled reactions about my chosen major from everyone from my maternal grandparents to classmates. He puts the glasses on and says, "I didn't mean that how it sounded. I was just thinking how everyone is always horrified at my major, like it's so difficult and all, but I hear 'social work' and think that sounds hard." I nod.

"My sister just finished her medical degree, so pretty much everything pales in comparison to that." He puffs his cheeks and blows air out.

"Oh, man, yeah. My roommate's pre-dental, and he studies nonstop—some nights I go to bed and he's studying and I get up and he's studying. So does your sister practice nearby?"

"She just started her residency. In Seattle."

"Cool." Jake and another groupie high-five each other, and Jake says, "Dude, yes," to Santana. "I want to be you so bad. But you know like with a penis" I glance at Santana, who's smiling and shaking her head. Whatever she's just admitted to, I'm sure I don't want to know.

"So why social work?" Artie gestures to the house. "I take it you're one of the regulars here, so you must know what a challenging field you're going into." I nod.

"I'm not starry-eyed about it. My dad's a pastor and my mom is an obstetrical nurse working with mostly low-income women, so I guess I have some built-in feelings of obligation to do what I can for my community. Lots of people who plan to go into social work talk about all the people they're going to help… but more often you save one person while losing nine.." He nods.

"Sounds like you've considered every angle. I think the world needs more people like you." I turn to grab my drink and hide my self-conscious smile.

"Thanks. So, why applied mathematics?" He smiles, a small dimple appearing on the right side.

"Well, I'm really good at math." The remainder of lunch ticks away while we discuss college courses, dorm life and going Greek, which I'm certain is not for me, though he insists I'd be perfect for a sorority leadership spot. "Scholarly types are needed, too. Trust me—I am one of those."

As we get up to throw our trash away and get back to work, he says, "It was nice to meet you, Brittany. Good luck at Berkeley, and, you know, saving ten percent of the world." He winks at me before signaling to his frat brothers to follow him inside.

I'm seldom so blatantly flirted with. Except for Santana, when she's entertaining herself by torturing me. Which doesn't count.

* * *

**Another update will be soon hopefully, feedback is appreciated. **


End file.
